Tudor Twists
by Rahja
Summary: A collection of short stories about the Tudor dynasty, all exploring different "what ifs". Explore new sides of your favourite characters and stumble upon ideas that may (or may not) have crossed your mind before. Enjoy!
1. Introduction

**THE TUDOR TWISTS**

Hey everyone and welcome to this collection of short stories and plot bunnies. Since I find it increasingly hard to concentrate on all the stories bouncing around in my head, I've decided to write them down as short snippets and alternative histories and offer them up to you. These are just a few ideas of how history could have changed if a certain point in time would be altered.

Each story has a certain small premise that's given in the beginning along with the characters who will play important roles. If you feel that one of the stories is something I should expand, please review and let me know. And if you like one of them enough to write your own story about it, feel free to do it, but please be so kind and credit me for the idea.

Enjoy!


	2. The Old Lady

_Premise: What if Margaret Beaufort hadn't died in 1509 but instead lived into Henry VIII's reign? Was she really an old dragon or was there a reason for her severity?_

_Characters: Margaret Beaufort, King Henry VIII, Catherine of Aragon, Anne Boleyn, Thomas More_

* * *

**THE OLD LADY**

* * *

_Pembroke Castle, January 1457._

Her body had reached a point of exhaustion that was beyond words. Her eyes were weary, her abdomen felt sore, and there was no strength left in any of her limbs. These were tough times, but what she had just gone through only few would have survived. She was only thirteen, still a child at heart, but she had given birth to a child of her own already. Her small, fragile body had almost been ripped apart. She wanted to sleep, preferably forever, now that it was all over. Except it wasn't. It had only just begun.

For the girl was Margaret Beaufort, the only legitimate child of the late Duke of Somerset, himself a descendant of King Edward III. Lancastrian blood was flowing through her veins and through those of her new-born son Henry. In fact, they were two of the remaining few people who had a claim to the throne. The War of the Roses had devastated England and demanded the lives of many nobles, including Margaret's husband Edmund, the King's half-brother.

Margaret was a child, but she was no fool. She knew why the King had married her to Edmund, and that it was highly possible her son would one day be the only Lancastrian claimant left. She knew what it meant: that both their lives were in danger. They would never be at peace so long as the civil war lasted. She looked at the rosy red bundle in her arms. Her son was born to be king, she simply knew it. She would do whatever it took to secure the throne for him. And from that moment on, Margaret Beaufort would never be a child again.

* * *

_Richmond Palace, April 1509._

Margaret had been holding his hand for hours refusing any request to let him go. There was no one with more right to be by his side but her, the woman who had given everything to bring him into this world, who had fought like a lioness in his course, and had forever been his advisor.

He seemed so peaceful now despite the fact that his angular face was ash-grey and gaunt. She could only hope he was with God now, and surely he would be received well, for he had been a good son, a good husband, a good king all his life.

"Henry," she whispered.

King Henry VII was dead. All she had ever hoped for was to secure his future, to make sure he would succeed in life and be the great king she had seen in him the day he was born. Had she succeeded? Margaret knew her son had been respected, but not loved. He had been cold-hearted and very sober, a miser and a pedant. But he had given England peace and stability, had he not? He would not be forgotten.

"My Lady."

Margaret's wrinkled face smiled. It was the only voice she wanted to hear now, the only person able to warm her heart. She turned around and looked into Harry's face. Of all her grandchildren, he had always been her favourite. He had been a sunny child and bright of mind, and he reminded her so much of the fascinating charisma her second husband Edmund Tudor had had.

"Majesty."

He was no longer Harry, she remembered. Now that her son had died, her grandson would be king – King Henry VIII. She had high hopes for him.

"Would you join me for dinner, my Lady?" He asked gently.

Margaret could see through it. He wasn't the first to try and encourage her to eat, but unlike the servants, he didn't treat her as a feeble old hag. He was a kind and charming boy. Margaret looked into his eyes. He wasn't her Henry, the child she had raised to be king, but he was the future. She could find it in herself to love him just like his father if she tried.

"With pleasure, Your Majesty."

* * *

_Westminster, January 1510._

"He ought never to have married her," Margaret Beaufort told her granddaughter Mary. She was speaking in her usual, severe tone that made it abundantly clear just how much life experience she had amassed. Mary, on the other hand, was a flimsy girl of fourteen. How much wiser Margaret had been at fourteen! But these were other days, they weren't as dark as the ones she had grown up into, and it was all thanks to her son, Henry VII.

"My son had the dispensation made, he even considered marrying the Spaniard himself, but he chose not to, and for a reason. She is but the daughter of the King of Aragon now, a stubborn foreigner, and moreover, the widow of your brother," Margaret insisted. "The dispensation was made on false grounds. The Spaniard was Arthur's wife in name and deed. I was in Ludlow with them, I must know. It is a sin against God."

"Is that why He called away their little daughter?"

Margaret Beaufort nodded slowly. Harry had married the Spanish princess against her counsel and had now been rewarded with a stillborn daughter. Usually, Margaret enjoyed being proved right, but this time it felt very bitter. She loved Harry after all.

"But they can still have more children."

Margaret grinned sadly. "And God knows they will try, but they shan't succeed. Harry won't get an heir off the Spaniard, God forbids it. Before time, we will be back to the old days of civil war and larceny of thrones. Oh, only I thank the Lord that he has called my son away so he does not have to see his legacy falling apart."

Mary remained silent. She was too young to understand what civil war truly meant, although she had been taught about the past. She didn't know how it felt like to send her own child into exile because it was the only way of keeping him alive. She did not know what it was like to see multitudes of good young men dying for nothing. Margaret had seen all of it and had prayed that she would never have to go back to it again.

But with her only grandson's marriage being a falsehood, all her hopes were crushed. The Tudor dynasty was doomed. England was doomed.

* * *

_Flodden Field, September 1513._

He had won. Henry VIII, so young and thirsty for war, had won his first major battle. He had beaten his own brother-in-law, the presumptuous King of Scots, and had thus ended the Scottish involvement in his war with France. He was the hero of the day, a young valiant knight who had defended his country bravely, and it was all thanks to her.

Henry had been in France fighting to take the city of Thérouanne when the Scots had dared to invade, mistaking his absence for weakness. If it had not been for her, the English would have been thrown off their guard with no real army to defend them. She had saved him, and Henry didn't even know how to thank her for it. Her. Margaret.

Only due to his grandmother's close bond with her namesake, the Scottish Queen Margaret, had he been able to know about the attack beforehand and return to England promptly. He didn't even dare to imagine what would have happened if he hadn't been there. Yes, he had left his wife as regent because he loved and trusted Catherine, but she was only a woman. Yes, she had told him that she meant to take up arms and defend his country, but he could only smile at the idea. A woman leading an army?

Now he was the smiling victor, the king triumphant, and even though he would not speak of it publicly, he owed it all to his grandmother.

* * *

_Greenwich, November 1518._

"God have mercy on my soul, for I despair in these dark hours. It has pleased you to fill my empty womb anew, to bathe me in the hope for a son, a SON, to be the living image of his father. You have given me another daughter instead, a beautiful little girl who would claim only six days of life," Catherine of Aragon prayed silently. "Why, Father, why?"

"Your Majesty?" Maria de Salinas, her most trusted lady, interrupted her.

"What is it, Maria? Is it His Majesty? Is he here?"

"No, Majesty. The King has not come to your rooms."

Catherine sighed. "He will not come again, will he, Maria? He has abandoned any hope of getting a son from me," she said rising to her feet. "And it is all her fault."

"Whose fault, my Lady?"

"Hers," Catherine insisted, her eyes twitching darkly. "Margaret, the King's grandmother. I know it, she has poisoned Henry's mind against me, she always has! There was never a day when she didn't speak against our marriage, do you remember? And now that his love for me is fading, I see him conversing with her more and more each day! Why would he ask for her counsel when he could have mine? I am a princess of noble blood, both my parents were king and queen in their own right! She is but an obscure noble."

"But she is a powerful lady… and the wealthiest woman in all of England. Her marriages have made her very rich," Maria objected.

"Why is she not dead yet? She is what, seventy-five, now? I swear to you, Maria, it is her spitefulness that keeps her alive. She will not rest until she has destroyed our love, until she has separated Henry and me. Why? Only to have a son, an heir to carry the Tudor name?" Catherine shook her head. "My daughter Mary can be queen, I know she can. My mother was a queen, so why shouldn't Mary?"

Maria de Salinas helplessly sought for an answer. "The English customs are different, Your Majesty."

"Perhaps, Maria, but it is only their stubbornness. I know Henry would see how great a queen Mary could be if only that old hag would no longer pour poison in his ears!"

* * *

_Hever Castle, June 1523._

Thomas Boleyn anxiously awaited the arrival of his guest. He still couldn't believe she had actually agreed to his proposal, but now that she had he would make sure everything went smoothly. If he could get her support, then the aims he could reach were endless.

"My Lady, the King's grandmother," a groom announced her as she was being helped out a carriage.

She was old now, almost as frail as she had been on the day she had given birth to her only son, but her eyes were still fierce. She saw less than she once used to, but she could still hear everything. She was the last remnant of an age long past, but she prevailed. Margaret Beaufort's life-task of securing the Tudor dynasty wasn't over, at least not yet.

"Ah, Boleyn. Now, let us not waste time, for I am old and tired. Tell me, where is this daughter of yours?"

He showed her into his house and seated her at his table as his special guest of honour. The servants were running around like madmen.

"Mary, come forward," he asked his daughter.

Mary Boleyn had been the King of France's mistress as well as King Henry's, and she remained in the latter's favours despite being married to Henry Carey now. She was a pretty woman of twenty-three, still childless but certainly fertile. He had every hope that England's old lady would be pleased with her.

"Come closer, child, for my eyesight abandons me more and more each day," Margaret Beaufort insisted. "Hm. Hm. Yes, pleasingly plump. And your other children, Boleyn?"

Thomas Boleyn had not expected her to show an interest in all of them, but of course he had prepared them for her visit. Within the beat of a heart, his only son George and his younger daughter Anne were kneeling in front of the King's grandmother.

"Charming," the old lady said without any hint of being impressed. "Let all of them join us for dinner."

It was an exhausting night for Thomas Boleyn, but one that he was sure would pay off. He would prove to his brother-in-law and to the world just what he could do. It all depended on her now, on her judgement with regard to Mary. Before the old lady left the next morning, Boleyn asked her to speak with him privately.

"So, what do you make of her, my Lady?"

"She is a pleasing little creature, your daughter, and it wouldn't surprise me if she made the King happy," Margaret said as soberly as usual. "But she is not fit to be queen."

Her eyes were no longer good enough to decipher his face, but she could imagine his reaction. Sixty years of politics had given her an enormous insight into the human mind. She knew that this was not the answer he had expected, and frankly she would have preferred giving him another one. His proposal had been so very tempting, after all: His daughter, who was already the King's mistress, could wed him if his unlawful marriage to Catherine of Aragon was recognised as such. Margaret would have been happy to agree to this – an English bride was less troublesome, and if she was fitted her grandson's tastes, it was all the better.

"What, why… I don't understand…" Boleyn murmured.

"She is a kind-hearted thing, no doubt, but this is not the time for kind-hearted queens. I had thought you would understand that."

If things had been differently, Margaret would have loved to have a queen like Mary Boleyn. She was very much like her own daughter-in-law, Elizabeth, had been, and even though Margaret had never liked her son's wife she had to admit that Elizabeth had been a wonderful queen. But as she said, this wasn't the time for tranquil queens. Her own life would not last forever, and when she would join her son in heaven, England would need another strong lady. Harry would need another strong lady.

"Your other daughter, however…" Margaret said carefully.

"Anne?"

"Yes, Anne. She is a cunning girl, even though she's no beauty. If, by some sort of coincidence, His Majesty would take a liking in her and would consider making HER queen… I would not object."

Thomas Boleyn's eyes widened. It was more than he had hoped for – it was Margaret Beaufort's blessing. He watched with awe as the old lady entered her carriage again and drove away.

* * *

_Pembroke Castle, August 1525._

It was strange, Margaret thought, that in her old years she often felt the urge to return to this god-forsaken place that had almost cost her life. Today, it was the only place she truly felt at ease. Her life had been long and full of hardships, but it was not over yet. There was something she had to do before she could leave with a clear conscience.

"And do you promise, Sir Thomas, to write down every word exactly as I speak it and to act upon my will by the time God calls me away?"

"I swear, my Lady," Thomas More affirmed her. It was a great honour, he found, that England's old lady had chosen him to be the executor of her will. "I am ready if my Lady is."

The old woman cleared her throat. "My name is Margaret Beaufort, daughter of John Beaufort and Margaret Beauchamp, mother and grandmother of kings of England. I have seen much darkness in my years, of which it has pleased God to give me plenty, and I have laboured ceaselessly to fight these terrors wherever I found them. I have lived through eight decades, but only in my later years did I meet the one enemy who would seal my fate."

Astonished, More put down his quill. "Of whom do you speak, if I may ask?"

"Please continue writing, Sir Thomas," the old woman insisted in a voice that allowed no protest. "…who would seal my fate: Catalina of Aragon, the Spaniard who calls herself Queen."

More stopped once more. "My Lady! Surely you cannot mean that!"

"I can and I do, Sir Thomas. Now do as you promised and write what I say: She is my sworn enemy, for she knows I have spoken against her marriage to my grandson, King Henry VIII, from the very beginning, and will continue to do so as long as I have breath to speak. It is a false marriage based on the assumption that the Spaniard was never my grandson Arthur's wife, when in truth everyone knows that she was. I was with Their Highnesses in Ludlow after their marriage, I heard what I heard and I have seen the blood-stained sheets," Margaret insisted. "I am too old to be frightened by her demonstrations of power, and I know what I know. Catalina of Aragon is the widow of Arthur Tudor and can thus never be the true and lawful wife of King Henry, which is why God has not granted them a living son, but many stillbirths and just one sickly daughter. It is a sign from our Lord and it strengthens me in my faith. Still, I know of the power the Spaniard has, and though I do not fear for myself I worry greatly about my grandson the King and the future of the Tudor house."

Thomas could barely keep up with the speed at which those words were pouring out of her. It seemed as if they had been building up inside of her for a very long time.

"It is for this reason that I cannot leave my bequest to my grandson, as much as I love him, for fear that it would fall into the hands of his false Queen and the bastard daughter she calls a princess. Instead, I appoint Sir Thomas More as executioner of my will and command him to divest all my lands, my estates, and my other riches and give them as alms to the poor of England."

The quill dropped out of Thomas More's hand. Had he really just written those words? It was unthinkable! Margaret Beaufort was the single richest woman, let alone one of the richest people in all of England, and she was considering giving it ALL to the poor! He stared at her in disbelief, but Margaret simply continued.

"However, Sir More shall do so only after the year 1530 has come and passed without the claim of a true heir to my properties. As a true heir, I shall recognise my grandson, King Henry, given that he is properly and lawfully married, and any legitimate children born from this marriage. If neither of this applies by the last day of 1530, I command Sir Thomas to act as my will dictates and only take a sum of 2000 pounds for himself to pay for his troubles," Margaret said sternly. "Dictated in the year of our Lord 1525 by Margaret Beaufort, sound of mind and disposing of memory. Do you have that, Sir Thomas?"

"Yes, my Lady," he replied in a trembling voice.

"Good. Give it to me so that I can sign it," Margaret ordered him. She could barely read what he had written, but she knew he was the most upright man in the kingdom and would never dare to write anything but her true words. As her quill was scratching along the paper, Margaret knew she had done all she could. She was playing the only card she had left – her vast fortune – and could only hope that it would open Henry's eyes and cause him to save the Tudor line. "Thank you, Sir Thomas."

* * *

_Greenwich, November 1525._

King Henry VIII still could believe any of it. First, his servants had informed him of his grandmother's death, and he hadn't been able to buy into it. Margaret Beaufort, England's great old lady, dead? She had always been there, every day of his life. She had seemed immortal. Now she was gone. Henry had been grief-struck, and moreover, also desperate, since his grandmother had been a pillar for him to rest on, hard as a rock. Now he suddenly felt very weak and vulnerable.

Then, Thomas More had come and presented him with his grandmother's last will and testament, the words of which he couldn't believe either. Catherine, his Catherine, should be his grandmother's deadly enemy? His grandmother would actually disinherit him as long as he was married to her? He didn't know whether to be furious or speechless.

"And these were her words exactly?" He asked his old friend More.

"Every single one of it, I'm afraid. The Lady was very keen and would have never allowed me to betray any of her words. This is Margaret Beaufort's last will."

Her presumptuousness infuriated him. Even in death she thought to dictate his choices! But some days later, a piece of intelligence was brought to him that would change his mind about Margaret, her will, and Catherine. His doctors had determined the cause of Lady Beaufort's death, and it wasn't old age. She had been poisoned, and even though it had taken them a long time to determine all the ingredients, they now knew the recipe.

It was a Castillian poison.

* * *

_Dover, February 1527. _

Eventually, everything had happened so fast. King Henry VIII had long been disappointed with his wife's lack of sons, but after the mysterious death of his grandmother, he had made up his mind very quickly. The evidence against his marriage given by the old woman may not have been enough to change the minds of his two fiercest adversaries, Emperor Charles and the Pope, but together with the suspicion of poisoning, they had suddenly gained momentum. Even Catherine's nephew had to admit that Catherine's involvement in the murder seemed likely.

The marriage of Catherine of Aragon and Henry Tudor had been annulled in July 1526 citing inappropriate proximity, and the Dowager Princess of Wales had joined a nunnery. She would always dispute Henry's accusations of poisoning, but he no longer listened to her. At least he didn't publicly announce any of it to avoid a scandal, but the word spread amongst the commons anyhow. Some believed it to be true while others rallied for Catherine, but all of them praised the King for his kindness in keeping the affair low. The also loved him for another reason: The daughter Catherine had given him, Mary, retained her title of Princess by courtesy, but she was now considered illegitimate and would be placed behind any children the King would beget from his future wife. And by God, Henry had already set his eyes on the perfect candidate.

Her name was Anne, Anne Boleyn, sister of his previous mistress Mary, but this affinity was no problem since the Pope granted him a dispensation without much ado. Even His Holiness acknowledged that, after the many ills that had befallen his marriage to Catherine, a son and heir was what England needed.

Henry had introduced her formally to King Francis here at Dover. He had seen how everyone was besotted with his wife, who, despite her lack of beauty, possessed a mesmerizing charisma. He had never been so infatuated with anyone, and within a few weeks, Anne would be his anointed queen. He smiled at her beautiful naked body lounging on the bed.

"Come, my love, let me conceive, and we shall have a son," Anne's dark voice whispered.

* * *

_Whitehall, January 1547._

Henry knew he was dying. He had been dying for weeks, but now that the moment was so close at hand he simply felt it. His time had run up and all that was left for him to do was pray that the people would keep him in good memory. The old man smiled thinking of his late grandmother, the infamous Margaret Beaufort, who with her actions had somehow forced him down this path. Would she receive him warmly when he entered heaven, would she be satisfied and proud? At least, he knew, he could die in peace, for the future of his dynasty was safe.

His wife had not given him a son after their wedding as she had promised but a healthy daughter whom they had named Margaret. Her birth and his marriage to Anne had granted him his grandmother's vast inheritance, making him the richest king in English history.

It hadn't been all roses with him and Anne, he saw it clearly now, for both of them were hot-headed and passionate. Still, their marriage had produced another three children besides Margaret: The princes Henry and Edward and his golden princess Elizabeth. Henry had sincerely mourned Anne's death by sickness three years prior, and even though he had remarried to Catherine Parr, his heart had always remained with her.

Now he was dying, leaving his country to his son Edward, for Henry, the elder, had tragically died at the age of twelve. Still, Henry felt no bitterness about it. He himself had been a second son, and he knew that Edward would make for a very fine king. He was charming and shrewd and beloved by the people. England could not wish for a better monarch and neither could he.

King Henry closed his eyes with a smile on his lips.

* * *

_Westminster Abbey, January 1559._

Every Englishman present watched with awe as St. Edward's crown was placed upon the golden cascade that was the hair of Elizabeth Tudor, now Queen Elizabeth I of England. She was twenty-five now and just like her mother she was no beauty, but there was something about her that forced everyone to obey. At the time of her birth, no one had imagined she would one day rule over England, but fate sometimes took strange paths.

Upon her father's death in 1547, her brother Edward had succeeded as Edward VI, and he had ruled well. Sadly though, he had become seriously ill by the summer of 1558, a dark sickness that he succumbed to only a few months later. His heir had been his only child, a daughter born two days before his demise by the name of Mary. She succeeded him as Queen Mary I, but her reign was even more unfortunate seeing that the poor baby only lived for one week and a half. She would go down in history as the Nine Days' Queen. Since the King's elder sister Margaret had abdicated all claims to the throne when she married the dauphin of France, only one claimant had been left.

And now the crown rested with Elizabeth. It wasn't the end Margaret Beaufort had laboured for when she began working in her son's interest. Elizabeth would never marry, thus ending the line of Tudor kings, but she would still fulfil one of Margaret Beaufort's greatest dreams: She would immortalise the Tudor name and see to it that her reign would be known as a Golden Age.

In a way, Margaret Beaufort had won.

* * *

_Please review and let me know which story you want next week- "The Golden Boy" or "Piercing Blue Eyes". Cheers, Rahja_


	3. The Golden Boy pt 1

_Premise: What if Henry's and Catherine's son had lived past his toddler years? Would it save his parents' marriage, would the Tudor dynasty be safe?_

_Characters: King Henry VIII, Catherine of Aragon, Harry Prince of Wales, Princess Mary, Anne Boleyn_

* * *

**THE GOLDEN BOY pt 1**

* * *

_23 February 1511_

He had been so in love with her ever since they first met all those years ago. Oh, how jealous he had been of his elder brother that he should marry the beautiful Spanish Infanta! But God had seen to it that things would go differently, and now Catalina was his wife and his queen, for he was king now – King Henry VIII. It was all he had ever dreamt of. _If only I get to be king and marry Catalina, England's future will be bright, _he had thought. He still firmly believed in this credo, but in a way, the last years had made him think.

Catalina, or Catherine as she was now called, was a wonderful wife, no doubt, but she was rather unlucky with regard to her most important duty: the royal cradle. First, she had given him a stillborn daughter, a sad story but nothing to worry about as they were still so young. Now, on New Year's Day 1511, she had given him the son and heir he wanted. How joyful he had been! How grand the feasts! But suddenly, it all seemed to go to waste. Harry, their miracle boy, had become sick, terribly sick. The royal physicians were trying to work a miracle, but the past days had beaten every hope out of them. The baby's tiny body wasn't yet strong enough to fight back the deadly disease that was eating it up from inside. There was no hope left.

Henry watched his praying wife. She was so young and beautiful and loving, how could he wish for more? Yet he did, he wished for more, he wished for a son. His father's words were still echoing in his ears: Get sons! Secure the dynasty! Prevent another civil war, for England could not survive it once more!

"Majesties…"

Both of them looked at the physician with trembling hearts. Had he come to inform them of their only child's death?

"The Prince continues to struggle. We have deliberated on the matter and now conclude that the worst is behind him. I am pleased to say that His Highness will live, against all odds, even though he is very weak still."

"Praise be to God!" Catherine exclaimed.

King Henry crossed himself in delight. His son was living!

* * *

_18 February 1516_

"It's a girl," they told him. "A healthy girl!"

King Henry tried to hide his disappointment behind a pleased smile, a smile that he had been forced to bring to perfection over many years of misery.

_A girl, _he sighed in his thoughts. _After all these miscarriages and stillbirths she still can't give me a son, a healthy son. The one she has given me is weak and sickly and clings to women's skirts like a cry-baby. Why can't she see that England needs warrior princes? I am my father's only heir, the only surety for peace, and my sons must follow in this path. What good are a fragile boy and a daughter on the verge of civil war?_

"Please meet your daughter," Catherine whispered.

Henry looked at the new-born girl. She was the image of her mother, fair coloured and perfectly sweet. His heart softened just by looking at her. Of course he did not hate her – how could he? And if he had been any other man, a commoner from the streets, he would have been perfectly happy with a healthy child of any sex. But with things being as they were, he needed someone strong-willed, robust and male to succeed him.

"We shall name her Mary, for my sweet sister," he announced. "Mary, pearl of my world."

Catherine's smile was his reward. Henry returned the smile with only half a heart. Their lack of healthy sons had drastically reduced the love that once had been between them. He still hoped that she would give him another son, one he could rely on, but his hope grew smaller with each passing year. She was over thirty, after all. Of course he knew she was doing her best. But he secretly feared that perhaps her best simply wasn't enough.

* * *

_27 December 1524_

Years had come and passed without another addition to the royal nursery. After Mary, there had been only one stillborn daughter. Rumours were spreading that the Queen was barren and that the King was turning away from her completely. One of his mistresses had given him a son, Henry Fitzroy, who seemed to be a fit and happy boy. The King had even made him Duke of Richmond and Somerset, a duke twice over. There was only one person closer to the throne than the bastard now: Harry, Prince of Wales, the Golden Boy.

England barely ever saw its crown prince. The King had seen to it that his son was always under guard in Hatfield House; the place had been kept extremely clean and the boy himself had been under constant surveillance by three different doctors. At the age of ten, Harry had moved to Wales to begin his education and preparation for the crown. Many rumours were circulating about the boy that nobody knew.

Harry could hear them whispering. He had been allowed back to court for Christmastide, now a gawkish boy of almost fourteen. The courtier's curiosity scared him. Unlike his father, Harry didn't enjoy being under scrutiny or even speaking to people he didn't know well. He found it very hard to read people's faces and thus felt weak and nobbled by those who knew how to play the game of court. This wasn't a place for him, but his father had insisted that he come and present himself to the people.

"You'll be their king one day, they must see you are strong enough to lead them," his father had said.

Harry didn't want to disappoint his father, yet he had no idea how to please him. What the King expected of him was virility, a trait that Harry knew he lacked. His strengths were of a different kind. He had a profound love of learning, spoke four languages including Latin, and excelled at history. If only his father wanted him to be a scholar, Harry could have pleased him easily. But he couldn't.

_Perhaps, _he thought, _it is difficult to please the King, anyway. _

His eyes watched keenly as the King was dancing with his long-term mistress Mary Boleyn. Harry may have been a sickly and introverted boy, but he possessed a remarkable insight into people's behaviour. Very soberly he had realised that his father no longer seemed to love his mother, the Queen, but instead diverted his attentions to her ladies. Even though it hurt his mother, it was the King's prerogative to do so and Harry would not complain. It was his duty to obey and endure just like his mother. He only hoped it was worth it.

"My Lady," he suddenly heard himself saying as his curiosity got the better of him.

"Oh, Your Highness!"

The girl, one of his mother's ladies-in-waiting, sank to her knees demurely. Harry blushed noticing that this position granted him unexpected insights into the beauty of her bosom.

"Please rise," he said half stuttering. "Can I ask you a question?"

"Of course you can," the lady returned and rose to her feet again.

Still unable to bear the embarrassment of the situation, Harry turned his head to the dance floor and pointed towards the King.

"My father's mistress…"

"Mary Boleyn?"

"Yes," he nodded. "Tell me… is she worth it? I know it is what kings do, take mistresses, but I also know it hurts my dear mothers heart. What I don't know is whether she's making him happy."

There was a long pause. Harry wondered what the lady was doing, but he didn't dare turn his head around for fear that he could not turn his eyes away from certain parts of her body. On the dance floor, his father was laughing heartily.

"I believe His Majesty is very happy with Lady Mary. She has been his mistress for many years, after all," the Lady now responded. "And she does not mean to offend the Queen. But if Your Highness worries for the well-being of your mother, I will make sure Lady Mary will always remember her place and not overstep any boundaries."

"You would?" Harry asked surprised and turned his head around before thinking about it.

"If it pleases you," the girl replied smiling gently.

Harry's heart dropped to the ground seeing her smile. There was something about her that captivated him like nothing he had ever seen before. In fact, _she _was like nothing he had ever seen or felt before. She was no maiden fair - her scent was foreign, her skin was dark, her hair was the colour of a raven, and her eyes were shining like shadow jewels. Harry gasped.

"And if I may say so, Your Highness, I consider your care for the Queen very chivalrous and charming. England is blessed to have a Prince of Wales like you," the girl continued.

"Really?" Harry's voice almost tumbled. He couldn't believe that a girl like her, older and much more adept in the ways of the world, would actually compliment him. "I mean… are you sure?"

The girl nodded. "Certainly, Your Highness. I think you shall make a great king one day."

Then she curtseyed again, certainly with innocent intent, but Harry was forced by powers stronger than his will to follow her every movement with his gaze until his eyes rested on her sweet breasts. He blushed so hard that he feared his head would explode.

"Well, thank you, then, and a good day to you," he said hastily and rushed away.

* * *

_16 August 1525_

The Golden Boy had returned to court once again to join the crowd of spectators watching the Royal Jousting Tournament. Of course Harry knew it was just a subterfuge for his father to inspect upon his progress. The King needed to know whether his sickly son would indeed make him proud one day. Harry, on the other hand, was terribly afraid that someone might form the idea to put him on a horse and force him to joust. He dreaded the moment this would happen, for not only was he an abysmal rider and prone to injuries, he was also secretly afraid of horses. They were large and strong…

If the King had asked him to enter a poetry competition, he would have easily outwitted all his enemies. The last months, he had spent every free moment putting the contents of his heart into words. There was much on his mind: the dire fate of his mother and of any queen, the love he bore his sweet little sister Mary, and the heat he felt remembering his conversation with his mother's lady on Christmas.

Being a sober and bright young man, Harry knew his infatuation with the nameless maiden was foolish. She had been older than him, so she would certainly be married soon, and even if that weren't the case, she was only an English nobleman's daughter. He was the Prince of Wales, destined to marry some foreign princess for political reasons, so the only way he could ever be close to the raven-haired lady was by making her his mistress. Harry could never do that to his queen.

"His Majesty has entered the tournament!"

Harry watched as his father rode around and was cheered by everyone. _They won't ever cheer for me like that. I'm not like him. I'm a disappointment to him. _He watched as his father lowered his lance and allowed the Queen to wrap her favours around it. That, at least, was a good sign. Rumour had it that the King had finally tired of his long-term mistress. Princess Mary had expressed to him her hope that everything would be well again between their parents, but Harry knew it wouldn't be that way. He had not wanted to disappoint his darling sister, but in his heart he was sure that the love between his parents was forever broken.

His dark thoughts hung over him like clouds distracting him from the tournament until suddenly, the sun broke through them and wrapped him in light. There, in the middle of the crowd, was a raven-haired maiden whose eyes shone like jewels. Harry's heart leapt in his chest.

_That's her! _His inner voice told him. _Go and ask her name! You won't be seeing her again until Christmas and until then, she might be married already! _

He found himself rising from his chair like a sleepwalker.

"Where are you going?" Princess Mary asked.

"Just stretching my legs, dear sister. I can't sit anymore," Harry lied without thinking about it.

He pushed his way through the crowd, most of them sinking into very deep curtseys as they noticed his presence. Harry didn't notice theirs. Finally, he found her crossing his way, a can of wine in her hands. She curtseyed before him without saying a word, her dark hair flowing around her neck like a waterfall.

"My Lady," he said in awe. He had been so sure that his memories of her were false and idealised, but now that he saw her again he was disabused. She was no perfect English beauty like his sister, yet something about her made her the most fascinating creature he had ever seen.

"Your Highness."

"How… how do you find the tournament?" Harry asked, immediately hating himself for it. _What a silly question! She must think you an imbecile!_

"It is very interesting, Your Highness. The King is a remarkable jouster," the girl returned in her dark, melodic voice. "Will you enter the tournament as well?"

"I? What? Oh, no, I don't think so. I… um… I don't think the King wants to take any risks with me."

The girl nodded. "Of course not. You're his only son and you'll be king after him. Nobody would want to joust against you for fear of hurting you."

"Yes, yes… And you? Where will you bring that mug?" _Really? _His inner voice scolded him again. _That's what you're asking her?_

"It is refreshment for the Queen, Your Highness. But if you want to, I will pour you a cup."

Harry blushed. "Well, um, yes, I'd certainly like a cup of your wine." He watched with trembling heart as the red liquid poured from her cup. He was acting a fool and he knew it. "Thank you, Lady… oh, um, you have never told me your name."

The girl grinned. "You have never asked me."

Now, Harry felt truly embarrassed and wanted to sink into the ground, but she quickly made him forget about all of it when her dark voice sad those words he would never forget in his life:

"I'm Anne. Anne Boleyn."

* * *

_29 December 1525_

"Boy, come here," the King ordered.

Harry did as he was told without turning a hair. He had always anticipated that his father would one day be having conversations with him that he would not like.

"You've been at court for two weeks now, yet I barely see you hunting and you haven't once been to the tennis court. On the other hand, you spend much time at your mother's chambers, I am told. I wonder why that is," the King began.

Harry blushed, unable to respond.

"I'm seeing a feminine streak in you, Harry, and it doesn't please me. A Prince of Wales must be strong and daring, not clinging to his mother's skirt."

"It's not that!" Harry burst out, immediately regretting that he'd spoken up to his father.

The King frowned. "Oh, isn't it? Then what are you doing in your mother's chambers all day? Have you become fond of sewing?"

"No, father."

"Then what is it?" The King's anger rose.

Harry hesitated. He felt very embarrassed even by thinking of the truth, but he knew his father's temper and that he would continue to ask until he got an answer that satisfied him. Blushing into a dark crimson red, he quickly murmured a response.

"What was that? Speak clearly, boy."

"It's because of one of mother's ladies," Harry admitted more loudly.

His father's angry face immediately vanished and was replaced by a questioning one that soon faded again into a broad laughter. The King laughed loud and heartily, patting his young son's shoulders.

"My son's enamoured, ha! Now that explains it all. Good boy!"

Harry's eyes lit up hearing this. It was the first time his father had ever praised him like that.

"Tell me, Harry, who is this fair damsel that keeps you away from all the fun of hunting and sports?"

"Her name is Anne Boleyn, Your Grace."

The King stopped laughing and pondered. "Anne Boleyn? Mary's sister… I know her. She's no great beauty."

"No, father, if you'd know her, you'd see that she is the prettiest flower in all of Eden!" Harry objected.

"Of course, of course," the King returned laughing again. "My son, the heart-breaker! How good to hear it, when I was already fearing you'd never become a man. Tell me, have you bedded her yet?"

Harry shook his head in terror. "No, of course not! I only admire her from afar…"

"Well, you're still young. But remember, when I was your age, no pretty girl could resist me, and I shall see to it that you'll be just as successful. We'll talk about that matter again tomorrow, understood? But for now, go and return to the Queen's apartments to woo your beloved little lady… and please deliver my sincere greetings to your mother."

Harry nodded, relieved to be off the hook, but also secretly knowing that there was only little sincerity in his father's greetings. The King no longer cared for the Queen - and it was only a matter of time until the whole situation would burst into flames.

* * *

**AN: That's only the first half of the story, but I didn't want to keep you waiting even though I couldn't finish it. Next week: Can the King rid himself of Catherine without declaring their children illegitimate and thus losing his only heir? Will Harry's frail health allow him to become king? And how will his infatuation with Anne play out - can he get her or must he marry for political reasons?**

**Please review and share with me your opinions on this part and on the questions above! I'd appreciate that. Cheers, Rahja**


	4. The Golden Boy pt 2

_****Premise: Henry and Catherine's son has survived his infancy, but what will adult life hold in store for him? Can he live long enough to become king, and if so, who will be the queen by his side?_

_Characters: King Henry VIII, Catherine of Aragon, Harry Tudor, Princess Mary, Anne Boleyn, Jane Seymour, Elizabeth Tudor_

* * *

**AN: I recommend that you listen to this song on youtube /watch?v=_DiaqK0Z55w&list=PL72EFB25F89F7F021 while reading the scene of 2 January 1537. Enjoy!**

* * *

**THE GOLDEN BOY pt 2**

* * *

_22 August 1529_

Cambrai. The French had given up fighting the Emperor's troops and conducted negotiations in Cambrai. These cowards! Without their support, the Pope would remain in the hands of Charles V., who had been cunning enough to allow His Holiness to escape to Orvieto. This way, no cardinal in Christendom could claim to speak for him in his absence, since he was seemingly free, but de facto he still remained a prisoner of the Emperor.

King Henry knew what this meant – the Pope would not be able to help him and neither would the French, those insufferable sissies! But without continental help, there was no way out of his cursed marriage to the Emperor's aunt, Catherine. And the King wanted out of it. Whatever love he had once felt for her was gone and replaced by anger. He had tried everything to convince her that he needed more sons, he had tried to make her see reason, but it had been futile.

_Damn those stubborn Spaniards!_

Catherine had bluntly told him that their daughter Mary could be queen if, God forbid, their son should die. Their daughter! King Henry had been baffled beyond reason. His daughter, as much as he loved her, was as dainty as her brother and moreover, she was female. Henry had tried to tell Catherine about the last woman attempting to take the English throne – Mathilda. Her desire had caused a civil war, the exact same thing that Henry was labouring to prevent. Still, Catherine hadn't given in.

He had begged her to step back from their marriage, to divorce him peacefully on the grounds of her barrenness, perhaps even to join a convent of her choice. It had all been in vain and now that all the power in Europe seemed to rest with her nephew, Henry had no way to force her. He was stuck with a wife he no longer loved and two heirs who seemed unlikely to survive him. Was it really the end of the Tudor dynasty?

_No, _he thought, _this can't be it. There has to be a way. If I can't marry and have more sons, then Harry will have to. He's eighteen, after all. I have neglected the subject for far too long due to his ever-failing health, but even if he doesn't survive me, maybe his sons will. I just need to find a healthy wife for him… but where? Catherine wants him to marry a Spaniard; she's often expressed that intend. Ha! I certainly won't do her THAT favour and commit the same mistake twice! Spanish women are too stubborn to make good wives and Lord knows I don't want to reward the Emperor for his recent wickedness. No… but no French girl either. These cowards, these traitors, their word is worth less than the dirt beneath my soles! All these foreign girls are just well-educated wenches who will seek to influence England in their favour. God knows they'd succeed, since Harry isn't as strong-willed as me… no, I'll find him an English girl, no political trouble, just someone young and pretty and fertile. Wait… that's brilliant!_

The King immediately sent for his son pacing up and down his council room.

"Your Majesty?"

"Ah, son, come here," the King said impatiently. "This girl you were once so fond of…?"

Harry frowned. "Um… Anne Boleyn?"

"Yes, Lady Boleyn. Is she already married?"

"No," Harry replied all too quickly.

The King grinned. "I see… So your interest in her hasn't waned. Good. Her family is very loyal to the crown. They are good subjects who seek nothing but to please their king."

Harry nodded, not knowing what else to do or say.

"Seeing that you are still infatuated with the Lady, I consider it safe to assume that you would not object if I ordered you to marry her?"

Now, Harry knew something to say. "What? Marry her?"

"Yes. It is high time we found you a wife, my son, and I would rather see you marrying a loyal member of my court than any of those treacherous foreign princesses. They aren't worth the trouble. Don't you agree?"

"But… but…"

The King sighed. "Will you marry her or not?"

"I… um… yes, yes I will… that is, if she agrees."

King Henry began to laugh loudly. "You are the Prince of Wales, Harry, no woman in her sane mind would object to marrying you!"

"But shouldn't we ask her first? I couldn't marry her if she didn't want to."

_He's too soft-hearted, _the King thought. _But, well, he's young and in love, I grant him that. There's no need to scold him this time._

"Of course you can ask her. No less could you do for love. Groom, go to Her Majesty's chambers and bring the Lady Anne Boleyn here."

Harry's eyes widened in shock. "Me? No, I couldn't ask her, I mean I would like to, but what if she only said yes because she was afraid to say no to my face?" It was a subterfuge. Of course Harry considered that possibility, but it wasn't the real reason he didn't want to. He simply knew he would die of embarrassment before he could ask her.

"Fine," the King replied in a sudden moment of kindness. Seeing his love-struck son reminded him of the young, valiant man he had once been, and he felt inclined to help Harry. "You can hide behind that door while I propose the offer to the Lady."

The Prince hurried out of the room, his heart beating faster than ever before. What if she said no? And what if she said yes? Either way, his heart would burst.

"The Lady Anne Boleyn," the groom announced. It felt like a death sentence to Harry. This was the moment of truth.

He peeped through the clearance and saw her – Anne. She sank to her knees in front of his father, causing Harry to feverishly envy the man for his insights into her cleavage.

"Lady Anne, how old are you?"

"Twenty-two, Your Majesty," Harry's beloved lady replied.

"And you are still not married. Why is that?"

"I… I was once betrothed, Your Grace, but it has been called off," the girl admitted.

"Well, but you deserve a chance for marital happiness, and seeing that your family has been loyal and amicable towards me for so long, I have taken it upon myself to find you a good husband. He has already agreed to the proposal and, in his cordiality, has begged me to obtain your consent before finalising the matter. Are you happy, Lady Anne?"

Harry bit his lip. What she would say now would change his life forever.

"I am very happy to hear that Your Majesty has chosen such a kind and affectionate man to be my husband. Only few women are blessed this way," the Lady replied. "May I inquire his name, Your Majesty?"

There was a very broad, generous smile on the King's face now. "His name is Henry Tudor, Prince of Wales."

Harry would have given everything to see the expression on HER face, but all he was granted as a silent gasp.

"Are you not pleased?"

"Majesty, I… I don't know what to say…"

"Then just say yes. You'll certainly never find a better proposal, especially since my son is not only a prince, but also very fond of you," the King said, causing Harry to blush. "You've been at the French court; you know the ways of the world, Lady Anne. Do not tell me you've never noticed."

Harry wanted to die in shame. How could his father betray his secrets this way? Why would he tell her about this?

"Majesty, if I ever noticed anything of the sort, I never attached much value to it, for he is the Prince of Wales and I am but a commoner," Anne Boleyn replied.

"You are an obedient subject, Lady Anne, and will surely make for a fine wife," the King assured her. "Which is why I shall ask you again: Will you marry my son?"

Harry wanted to die, right here and now.

"Yes," he heard her saying. "If he considers me worthy, how could I not love him back?"

A tidal wave of emotions washed over the young prince. Yes. She had said yes. Anne had said yes. Anne would be his wife. He would be able to be with her, to hold her hand, and God, even to kiss her! She would promise to love him until their dying days! It was completely unthinkable, and yet he heard his father affirming it once more. He wanted to dance and sing and jump into the air, but then certainly Anne would have heard him and things would have been very awkward.

"You can come out, Harry," his father's voice pulled him back from his joyful dreams. His father was smiling more generously than ever before. "You've heard the future Princess of Wales. Are you happy?"

Harry nodded. "The most happy."

* * *

_12 March 1530_

_Mirror, mirror…_

Queen Catherine was staring blankly at the mirror while the maid was brushing her hair. Once she had been very fond of this procedure, but now she dreaded every second of it, for the mirror brutishly reminded her of the reality. Her hair, once her greatest pride in its beautiful auburn glossiness, was now fading into the grey of ashes and thinning by the day. Her pleasing face had turned bulging and careworn and her petite stature had given way to a broad, bulky shape. She had become ugly.

It was his fault entirely – the man who had used her to his will and tossed her aside when she no longer satisfied him. Although Catherine outwardly claimed otherwise, she no longer loved her husband. What woman could love a man who treated her so harshly? She still loved the man he had once been, her knight in shining armour, her Sir Loyal Heart, but years of misery had finally led her to the conclusion that this man was dead and gone. The one that remained treated her cruelly and cared for nothing but his pride. It seemed to her that everything the King did these days was filled with spite addressed to her.

He purposefully kept her separated from her children, Catherine knew it, with Harry being in Ludlow and Mary growing up in the countryside. He couldn't even be bothered to undertake the negotiations necessary to find Mary a husband or at least betroth her to someone. She was fourteen now, by far old enough to be promised to a prince, but Catherine was afraid that her husband was purposefully delaying the matter.

And to spite her even further, he had arranged a wedding between her only son and Anne Boleyn, the sister of his former whore, an English girl, daughter of an upstart, and a secret reformist if one was to believe the rumours. Catherine couldn't decide which of those facts she liked the worst. How could Henry do this to her? He knew perfectly well that their son should have married a princess, preferably a Spanish girl, or at least Austrian. But no, he chose that girl to remind Catherine that he held ultimate power, that he could do as he wished, and that his new-found idea of reform would prevail.

_God will punish him for it, _Catherine thought bitterly. _He is but a mortal man, he cannot do as he pleases and destroy all that is good and holy. He cannot rid himself of me. God wants me to be his queen, whether he likes it or not, and my children will rule… preferably Mary._

Yes, Catherine secretly hoped for her daughter to ascend the throne. As much as she loved her son, she feared the corroding influence of his English bride. Anne Boleyn did not deserve to be queen and her blood should never besmirch the throne, even if it meant that a girl would have to take the crown. Catherine knew that Mary could do it. Mary could be queen in her own right.

But Henry had taken that choice away from her by arranging their son's marriage. He had forced Catherine to anxiously wait and at the same time dread all information they received from Ludlow. When the harlot – Catherine refused to think of her as Princess of Wales – would give birth to a child, it would weaken Mary's claim to the throne. Even if Harry died an early death, Mary would have to yield precedence to his children. And besides this, there was also a more personal reason why Catherine hoped that her daughter-in-law would fail, even though she would never admit to it: she was heart-broken jealous to imagine another woman being happily pregnant and giving birth to healthy children that pleased their father – and Catherine had no doubt that Harry would be pleased, no matter the sex of his child.

Catherine was staring at the mirror. Years of disappointment had made her hard and bitter, causing her to scorn her daughter-in-law without acknowledging how happy she made her son. She did not know it was Anne who sat by Harry's bedside day and night during his frequent illnesses, relieving him with games of cards and dark stories of the North. She was unaware that her son, who had always perceived his body as a cage of weakness, finally found a reason to accept himself because of Anne's touch and tender caress. She had no idea that his shy personality was slowly maturing into that of a grown man through many passionate discussions fought with Anne.

Catherine knew nothing about what happened in Ludlow and thus continued to hate the Princess of Wales, even though the King and his court didn't share her opinion. At least she would make sure one person would agree with her now and always – Mary, her daughter, her only hope for England. Catherine ordered her maid to bring paper and quill and began writing to Mary.

* * *

_19 May 1533_

Harry was bursting with pride as he watched his wife parading her visibly swollen belly around court. For the first time in his life he did not mind the courtiers watching; in fact, he wanted them to look. He wanted them all to see what his love for Anne had created. Their whispers over the last years had been obvious to him, however much they had tried to conceal them. They had doubted his ability to father children, to be king in general, but now the scandalmongers remained silent.

Anne, the raven-haired Princess of Wales, was no beauty, but today she shone brighter than any other woman at court. Her cheeks were as red as roses, her skin the colour of a peach, and her eyes sparkling like a lake in morning light. In a time when pregnancies were dangerous, Anne seemed extraordinarily healthy. It was a good sign for everyone to see.

Harry curiously watched his father eyeing his wife. Was he proud and relieved? Harry knew that his father had become more and more impatient with the seeming barrenness of their marriage. In the beginning, it had been a great test for them, often causing Anne to cry bitter tears when her monthly blood had returned. But one day, Harry had assured her, in a firmness that was unusual for him, that he didn't mind her lack of pregnancy, for it meant another month for them alone. He trusted that God would send them a child when the time came.

The time had come and now, at the age of 22, Harry finally felt ready to become a father. He had often been frightened by the idea when still a boy, but he was a man now and very much looking forward to seeing the child that was growing inside her. His child and Anne's, the symbol of their love, a beautiful creature with her eyes. He had never been happier. And his father?

There certainly was satisfaction in the King's face. He as much as everyone hoped that this pregnancy would be the first of many continuing the Tudors' claim to the crown. But Harry detected something else in his father's gaze, something that he didn't appreciate. It was jealousy, cleverly disguised, but still visible to a trained eye. In a way, it was understandable – Harry knew how much his father longed for more children and he had even caught himself wishing once that his parents would put an end to this and simply divorce each other. Of course his father would be jealous that he, Harry, would soon get what was denied to him. But there was something in this jealousy, something darker, that Harry had no excuse for. Did his father envy the fact that Anne was Harry's wife… and not his?

* * *

_30 May 1536_

King Henry finally got what he wanted. For years he had been trapped in a loveless, barren marriage, but now he was free at last. His wife, the stubborn Queen Catherine, had left this world in January, leaving him a widower not one moment too late. For more than a year now, he had been infatuated with one of her ladies-in-waiting, Jane Seymour, who was everything that Catherine was not. She was young and a pleasing sight and moreover, she was demure and sweet. She would never cause him as much trouble as his previous wife. And, above all, she was carrying his child.

The King had lost no time to prepare for their wedding. It was imperative that their child would be born within the sanctity of marriage since he needed every heir he could get. Once he had thought to delegate the matter to his only son, but the weak boy seemed incapable of doing the deed. The wife he had given Harry specifically to produce children had been pregnant only once – once! – and had given birth to a daughter. Everyone was smitten with little Elizabeth, even the King, but she was only a girl. England would need more sons.

The King's gaze wandered through the crowd of his dancing guests. Everyone had come, even his son who adored his wife as usual. Everyone – except her. It still made Henry's blood boil to think that his own daughter Mary, of all people, would choose to boycott his wedding. _You are dishonouring my mother's memory by marrying before the mourning period is over, _she had told him. When he had ordered her to come, Mary had pretended to be sick. Or perhaps she was truly sick, who knew? She was almost as frail of health as her brother, but all the more stubborn. In a way, she was just like her mother.

England's hope now rested with Queen Jane and the child in her belly. Henry knew more would soon follow. He eyeballed Jane, his new wife, and although her visible pregnancy pleased him immeasurably, something just didn't feel right. He had fallen for her because she had been obedient and pure, but these attributes slowly began to lose their attractiveness. Yes, she would make a better queen than Catherine, bound to serve and obey, but she would soon bore the King.

A warm, soothing laughter reminded King Henry of something that was not boring. He looked at the woman laughing, Anne, his daughter-in-law, and found himself wishing with all his heart that he could have married her. She had the making of a true queen, impressive and awe-inspiring, and her passionate character would have never failed to amuse him. THEIR children could have ruled the world, he knew it. If only he'd found a woman like Anne, he would have never let her go.

* * *

_2 January 1537_

Misery had befallen the noble house of Tudor. In July, Henry Fitzroy, the King's bastard son, had suddenly and unexpectedly died from consumption. Only a few weeks later, the new Queen had miscarried her unborn child – a girl. And now, in the darkest hours of the night, a young man in Wales was drawing his last breaths. His name was Harry Tudor, Prince of Wales.

"How are you feeling?" Anne's dark voice asked.

His pain was washed away just hearing her speak. He tried to smile. "Awful."

The Princess of Wales sank to her knees beside his bed, her eyes filled with dark sorrows. "Oh my Love… my Love… do not worry, we will see through this as we have done before."

"No." Harry coughed heavily. "Not this time."

"What do you mean?" Anne asked, her eyes open wide.

He smiled helplessly. "I'm dying, sweetheart."

"No. No. No!" Anne shook her head violently. "You can't. You won't. Not now."

"I will," he insisted. "Death has visited me often; we are old acquaintances. I know that he won't leave without me this time."

Anne was still shaking her head. "But I won't let him! You can't die now, don't you see? If not for my sake, then please stay for England's. The children of the wench should never succeed your father."

"She's the Queen now, Anne," Harry reminded her coughing.

"But YOU are meant to be King! You MUST be King, for England's sake!"

Harry shook his head, his face filling with pity and sadness. "No, Anne, I was never meant to be King. I never felt like being King, and the only reason why I wouldn't have failed completely is you. I can see that clearly now. I was never born to be King… but Bessie is," he stopped to cough. "Bessie is my heir and she will be Queen one day. Promise me that you'll see to it."

"You can do it yourself, for you won't die!" Anne insisted in her fierce, passionate ways, but his weak expression forced her to calm down. Slowly beginning to accept the saddening fact that he was dying at last, she buried her head beneath his body. "I promise."

"With you by her side, she will be wonderful. She will bring about the Golden Age that you and I have dreamt of," Harry continued dreaming out loud. His weak hands began to caress her dark hair. "I have no doubt about it, sweetheart."

"But why?" Anne lifted her head to look at him, her piercing eyes filling with tears. "Why must you leave me thus? Why must you leave me alone? Why… why are you not mad?"

"I suppose I should be. To be separated from you, my love… never to see my sweet Elizabeth grow up… it is so very unjust."

Anne's eyes were angry now. "Then why aren't you mad?"

"Because that's not the last thing I want to feel," Harry said breathlessly. "I want to feel your love, Anne, so that I can imagine myself already in heaven."

These words broke her dam. Crying inconsolably, Anne cuddled up to her husband and embraced him as firmly as he could. Her scent, dark and mysterious, crawled up his nose. Harry smiled and inhaled every last bit of it. She was the single best thing in his life, the one thing that had made it worth living, and he was truly glad that with Elizabeth, a part of him would always remain with her.

"Harry," Anne wept. "I love you so much, Harry."

She offered her lips for a kiss, but he was already too weak to return it, so Anne bent over and kissed him as passionately as they had kissed during the first weeks of their marriage. When their lips parted, he looked into her dark eyes one last time. Tears were sparkling in them like jewels. He smiled and closed his eyes.

"Life is very beautiful," he whispered.

In the days to come, no bells in England were ringing. There was much crying and weeping in the streets as the people mourned their prince, their hope for peace. The court, too, was heavily clouded with sadness and fear, especially the King and his Queen who knew now that her next pregnancy would be her last chance. They all cried for the death of the Golden Boy, but there was only one who truly mourned the loss of the man behind the title:

Anne, his wife, the woman whose life he had changed forever.

* * *

_Ten years later_

When King Henry VIII died, his worst fear had come true: his succession was an unclear question. Although his will, affirmed by vote of Parliament, stated that Edward, his son by Jane Seymour, was his direct heir, many were not convinced. Many doubts circled around the fact that his mother had never been formally crowned unlike the first queen, Catherine of Aragon. Those who favoured the old religion were more inclined to support the claim of Catherine's daughter, Princess Mary. Her father had always denied her the chance to get married, but she was not yet too old to make up for it and produce Catholic heirs. And there were others who believed in the sanctity of succession laws and thus accepted that the claim to the throne had passed through the deceased Prince of Wales, Harry Tudor, to his only daughter Elizabeth, but they were few in number.

A few days after the King's demise, the situation had been decided in favour of the only male contestant who was quickly crowned King Edward VI. His rival half-sister Mary was taken into custody, albeit peacefully so as not to anger her supporters. The other claimant's fate was much brighter: Anne, Dowager Princess of Wales, had instinctively realised the growing tides and submitted herself to Edward's regent, Edward Seymour. In return, her daughter Elizabeth, who was like a sister to the young king, had been allowed to court and was revered there as the highest lady in the land. It took the Dowager Princess only months to charm her way into the King's heart and persuade him to name Elizabeth his successor in absence of his children.

Five years later, this arrangement would pay off. The young King, frail of health as each of Henry VIII's children, succumbed to the same illness that had taken his illegitimate brother many years before. There was a short uprising trying to put Mary on the throne, but it found little sympathy amongst the progressively minded Londoners and soon fell apart. The Princess herself insisted that she had been unaware of the rebellion and was consequently spared any punishment. In August 1553, Elizabeth Tudor was proclaimed England's first Queen Regnant.

* * *

_4 September 1553_

Anne watched with awe as her darling girl, not yet twenty, ascended the stairs in Westminster to have the crown of Edward the Confessor placed on her golden hair. There had been days when she had doubted that this moment would ever come, but Harry's words had remained with her always.

_Bessie was born to be Queen._

He had been right. He had always been right. Earlier this day, when she had been dressed in her magnificent coronation gown, Elizabeth had asked her mother:

"Do you think he would have been proud of me?"

"He would have burst with pride," Anne had assured her smiling. "Your father was never good at holding back his feelings."

Now, standing by the dais as the golden crown smoothly fitted upon her daughter's head, it was Anne who found it hard to hold back her feelings. Relief, pride, joy, sadness, love – she felt them all at once.

_If only you were here, my love, _she whispered in her thoughts. _If only you could see our baby girl becoming queen. She's everything we hoped she would be. She is England's first reigning queen and she will create a new Golden Age for everyone to behold. Our Golden Age will come true. Can you see her?_

For a second, Anne could feel his hand against her cheek, softly caressing her as he had done before so many times. She closed her eyes wistfully and sighed.

_Oh my Love… I am waiting to see you again, to be one with you again. I love you so very much… but you will have to wait a little longer. I must stay with our girl for now and guide her so that she can become the queen that you have always seen in her. But we will meet again one day, and until then I am sure you understand. You've always understood me more than anyone else. Oh Harry._

One single, crystal clear tear found its way out of her eye and sparkled down her cheek as she watched Elizabeth rise and address her people for the first time as queen. She was happy and sad at the same time. England had lost its prince long ago, its Golden Boy, but it had now been given a Golden Queen of his blood instead. God did indeed work in mysterious ways, but Anne was now more faithful than ever that everything would eventually turn out well.

She smiled and whispered: "Life is indeed very beautiful, my Love."

* * *

**AN: I've just finished writing this and still can't really find any words to say, so I'll just say this: hope you've enjoyed "The Golden Boy" and if you did, please let me know in the reviews. And please vote for the next story you want to read: "In Her Eyes" or "Divorced, Beheaded, Died?" Cheers, Rahja**


	5. In Her Eyes

_Premise: What if Anne Boleyn and Jane Seymour had been lovers long before they were queens? _

_Characters: Anne Boleyn, Jane Seymour, King Henry VIII, Lady Mary_

* * *

**IN HER EYES**

* * *

Neither of them could say what had initiated their involvement in the first place. Perhaps it was fate, perhaps a concurrence of circumstances, or perhaps merely chance. But whatever it was, it had begun sometime around 1522, when a young daughter of an insignificant noble had fallen in love. Her name was Jane Seymour; she was thirteen then and visiting court for the first time to attend the pageant that would go down in history as the _Château Vert_. It was far from uncommon for a young girl like her to become infatuated, but the person who stole her heart was the most unlikely choice she could have made: It was Lady Perseverance, Anne Boleyn.

They would not meet again for seven long years, but Jane kept her feelings like a hidden treasury. She knew it was unnatural for a woman to feel what she felt. In the beginning, she had considered it mere admiration and hoped that it would fade away, but her interest had remained with her day and night. She wondered what Anne was doing, far away at court, and could not manage to get her out of her head. Anne's smile, her graciousness and charm, they had ignited a spark inside Jane that slowly burned underneath her skin. At twenty, this fire burst into flames when her father arranged for her to become a maid to the Queen – along with Anne.

Of course Jane knew that Anne was the King's sweetheart – or mistress, as many assumed – by now and that she could not hope to ever be noticed by her. If the King got his way, perhaps Anne would be Queen herself sometime soon. Jane had relished every piece of information about their story, watching it with curiosity and jealousy. But now that she could finally be in Anne's vicinity, she no longer cared that her beloved's heart belonged to the King.

But something happened. Anne's eyes rested on her far longer than on anyone else, and when Jane looked back the lady quickly turned her gaze away. The King's mistress began to single her out and to choose her as company whenever the chance arose. At first, Jane didn't know what to make of it, but even she wasn't oblivious to the tension that was growing between them. This spark she had felt so long ago – it was with them again.

And then, one night as they were alone sewing outside the Queen's chambers, Anne's lips touched hers. What had led to this moment both of them forgot, for it was only longing that remained with them. They knew it was unnatural and forbidden, though Anne would later claim that the bible never actually spoke against it. They knew it would cause a scandal that could ruin them both, especially since the King would be the most betrayed. But still, neither of them would stop.

Why? They asked themselves over and over again. Why were they, of all people, fancying each other? But it was a rhetorical question to which both knew the truth: that they were so unlike each other, so much like fire and ice that they were _bound _to be attracted to each other. Anne was a lioness, self-confident and darkly exotic. She possessed the ambition and self-assurance that Jane had always wished she had. In contrast, the Seymour girl was a sweet, pure lamb without much knowledge about the ways of the world. Yet, she possessed the patience and magnanimity that Anne had always known she lacked. Together, they were whole.

They were in love.

* * *

"She's perfect," Jane sighed as her eyes wandered over the new-born's reddish-haired head.

"She's not what Henry wanted," Anne returned bitterly. "He will not be satisfied. I'm no better than Catherine now."

Jane firmly shook her head. "Of course you are. Catherine's first daughter died before birth, remember? Your first child is healthy and beautiful, even if it is a girl. And to be honest, I would not trade her for a prince now that I have met her."

There was something so very soothing about the way Jane spoke that always warmed its way into Anne's heart. They had gone through many tribulations and tears over the past four years, but Jane had always found a way to make her smile again.

"Well, she is _our _daughter, isn't she? She couldn't be anything but perfect," Anne now said.

"Yes. She's our Elizabeth, our shining star. Don't you like it, Anne? If she were a boy, they would take him from us and educate him to be a prince, but Elizabeth is ours," Jane mused. "The King will surely wait another year for a son. Elizabeth will have a brother in no time, you'll see."

Anne nodded, her eyes turning dark again. "Only if God wills it."

"But he must will it, Anne! England needs a prince and you…"

"I need to keep the King's love. I am no fool, Janie, I know that my weal and woe depend on giving the King a son," Anne barked, immediately regretting her harsh choice of tone. "I am sorry, dear, I did not mean to yell at you. It's just… you know."

Jane nodded, taking Anne's hand into hers. "I know. There is ever so much pressure on you. I forgive you for I know you did not mean to be abusive. I know you love me."

"With all my heart," Anne affirmed her. "Well, not all of it. Elizabeth owns part of it now."

They both giggled as if they were girls still.

"I think I can accept sharing your heart with such sweet a lady. After all, I have learned to share it with the King for a time now."

"You know I do not love him like I love you. Our love is pure and warm and unconditional. With Henry… you know how fickle he is. Sometimes, he makes me want him madly, but sometimes his crown is the only thing that prevents me from strangling him with my bare hands."

Jane grinned. "You're far too passionate, my love."

* * *

"They say the Dowager Princess is taking her last breaths."

Anne stared into the mirror, her eyes like hollows. She knew her maid expected some kind of joyful or sad response, but the only thing she could feel was fear. Not so long ago, she would have been overjoyed to hear that her great rival would die soon and could no longer lay claim to the Queen's crown. But things had changed. Anne had changed.

"Get Lady Seymour here," she simply replied to her disappointed lady. Her eyes were wandering restlessly over the image in the mirror. Had she become older? More anxious? Less charming? "Ah, Lady Seymour. Thank you, Nan, you can go."

They waited for the maid to leave before Jane took a seat by her mistress's side. Her sweet green eyes were visibly worried. "What is it, my heart?"

"Have you heard about Catherine?"

"Yes, I have," Jane returned smiling only to lose that smile once she noticed the expression on Anne's face. "What grieves you so? Is it not good? Now you'll be Queen indeed."

Anne shook her head. "No, now I'll be doomed indeed."

"What? Why?"

"He loves me not," Anne said bluntly, her face turning towards the mirror again. "I know it. He used to love me, but it is all gone now. If this child is not the son he is longing for, I know he will set me aside. With Catherine still alive, he couldn't have done it, for many would have assumed that his marriage to her was valid then. But this way… no, Janie, oddly enough the Dowager Princess was my protection. Now I am doomed."

Jane's soft fingers touched the Queen's cheeks. "How can you say that? The King would never set you aside; you are his Queen! And besides, we both know that your child is a boy. What could possibly go wrong?"

Anne's lips began to tremble. "I don't know. I just fear it."

Unable to stand her beloved's sadness, Jane bend over to caress Anne in her arms. They embraced each other for a long time.

"He'll take a new mistress now," Anne whispered in a voice that betrayed her wounded feelings.

Jane wanted to object, to calm her down, but even she knew it was futile to deny that the King would seek another mistress. He always did. It was his right, of course, but Jane hated him for it since he broke Anne's heart.

"And if this isn't a boy, or if he dies before he sees the light, then Henry will put me away. He'll put me to death, I know it, Janie!"

Jane violently shook her head. "No, Anne, no. He will never do that. I wouldn't let him."

"But his mistress and her family… they'll make him do it. They'll orchestrate my downfall to rise themselves, I know they will. I can see them already, shoving their daughters in front of _my husband_!"

Anne burst into an inconsolable cry of sadness, jealousy, and anger that made Jane feel very helpless. Unfortunately, there was much truth in what Anne said. If anything went wrong, there was no guessing what the King would do to her. Jane could not bear the thought.

"And if I became his mistress?" She asked.

Anne looked at her with her eyes wide open. "What? You?"

"Yes. I would never seek to replace you. You'd be safe this way."

"No, Jane. I cannot ask this of you; it is far too much."

"Would you rather have him take someone else, someone who seeks to harm you?" Jane returned firmly. "I love you, Anne, and if this is the only way to protect you, then I will do it."

Anne shook her head. "No, please, Jane, don't do it. Can't you see what it's done to me to love the King? It's tearing me up from inside. Please don't do it. You're too sweet and gentle for a man like Henry; he'd devour you like a bird of prey."

"I may be sweet and gentle, but you have taught me how to be a lioness if need be," Jane insisted in a strong voice that was very uncommon for her. "And the need has arisen. I do not mean to love him, for I never could – I love you, you and our Elizabeth. I will protect you."

There were no words Anne could say now to change her sweetheart's mind. The sparkle in Jane's eyes was determined and strong, something Anne had never seen before in her. And perhaps she was even right; perhaps this was their chance of surviving court together. It just seemed that the price they would have to pay was very high.

* * *

They were whispering. Even through the thick veils surrounding her bed, Anne could hear their curious whispers. Soon, everyone at court would know, even if there was no official announcement. The story would spread like wildfire and gain momentum with every narrator. Anne could imagine them gossiping about her fate like it was only meant for their amusement. They did not care what it meant for her. They did not care what she went through. They were like vultures preying on her misery.

And the story they would soon be telling all around court was a good one full of misery: The Queen walking into the King's chamber only to find him kissing his latest mistress. The Queen having a breakdown upon seeing this. The Queen losing her unborn child for distress.

Anne put a hand on her still swollen belly. Her son was gone. Her saviour had died before he had even had a chance to live. She had never felt so numb.

Some would pity her now, saying that the King should have acted with more discretion, while some would blame her entirely for being too jealous. Others would expand the story to make it more dramatic like claiming that she had found her husband and his mistress copulating on the council table. But everyone would know this: The Queen had lost their prince because she had seen her husband kiss another woman.

They were far from the truth.

Yes, Anne had often been jealous when Henry had taken mistresses, even though she knew that she was in fact betraying him more harshly by loving Jane. But this jealousy had slowly waned into bitterness and hurt. She had not lost her mind in the council room because she had seen Henry kiss another woman – she had lost it because she had seen him kiss Jane. Jane, her Jane, her sweet pure Jane whose lips had never belonged to anyone else but her. She had known that they would do it sooner or later, but to see it had been far too much. It had broken her heart and broken her son.

Now, all hope was lost.

* * *

"More wine, Lady Jane?"

"Yes, thank you, Your Majesty."

The King watched with a smile as his servants poured her another cup. He enjoyed looking at her, at his sweet golden angel. Jane was everything that his wife was not – white, pure, sincere, demure, and fertile. The last was only an assumption, but one that Henry was fairly certain about. He simply felt that Jane was the one who could give him a son. If only there was a way…

"I must ask you a question, my Lady."

"Majesty?"

"In your sweetness you granted me to serve you as Lancelot served Guinevere. Yet, Guinevere was a queen, wasn't she?" He smiled. "What would you think if I asked you to be a queen as well?"

Jane blinked twice before she understood. "But Your Majesty already has a queen," she insisted in shock.

"Well, maybe not. I can tell only you, but there are certain inquiries into the validity of my marriage. There may be cause to apply the rules for forbidden affinity…" His mind wandered off. "And there are even rumours that the Queen has not been as faithful a wife as she ought to. I might need to punish her for that… but none of this concerns you, my sweetheart. Say – if I were a free man, would you accept my love for you and be my wife?"

His words were like knives piercing through her heart. Jane, never a born actress, struggled hard to keep these feelings hidden from him. He was actually considering breaking with Anne or worse! He was threatening everything they had worked for! Jane could feel the blood vanishing from her face.

"What is it, my darling? You're pale. Are you unwell?"

"No, Majesty, I…" She took a deep breath knowing that her next words could seal Anne's fate. "Though I love Your Majesty, I could not marry you knowing that you set your wife away like this. Our happiness would be built on her sadness. God would never grant us sons this way."

Henry sank back into his chair. "Well, what would you have me do then?"

"If… if these men find your marriage invalid, then you must annul it, but…"

"And what about these rumours?" Henry interrupted her impatiently. "They say my wife has been fooling around with other men, entertaining them in her chambers late at night. They say the child she has lost may not have been mine."

Jane shook her head. "I cannot believe it!" Her voice was louder than usual. "I have been with Her Majesty day and night for so many years now and could not believe any of this to be true. She has many enemies at court who would dare to spread such vile lies about her, but that is what they are: lies. Please, I beg Your Majesty not to believe any of this slander."

Henry sighed. He could see the sincerity in her face but he could not understand why she was rallying for the woman she could replace. "If you say so then it must be true. But what am I to do? My marriage is cursed and unlikely to give me sons. And you… do you not love me? Do you not want to be my wife?"

"I do love Your Majesty," Jane quickly assured him, knowing that there was no other way left. "And I would be your wife. Surely, if you speak to the Queen, she will come to see the situation for what it is and agree on a divorce. Your Majesty is head of the Church of England and could surely arrange a divorce, could you not? This way, you would pay homage to the great love that once was between you and the Queen and you would not lose your legitimate daughter, the Princess Elizabeth, who is the sweetest child who ever lived."

"Yes, my Elizabeth," Henry nodded smiling. "Princesses are always a good thing to have and with our sons not far ahead, there is no harm in having her. She is a true blessing, after all."

Jane returned the smile. "Then say you will try this way. Speak to Her Majesty and it will all come out for the best."

"Oh Jane, you are far kinder than any other English rose. The Queen ought to be grateful for you sweetness. Yes, I accept, I will offer my proposal to her that I shall keep our daughter a princess and grant her a good life as Marquess of Pembroke. I only hope that she is sensible enough to accept."

* * *

It was the first time in months that Anne got to see the only person she had ever loved. Yes, they had agreed not to meet for some time in order to keep their feelings secret from a very curious court, but it had been even more difficult than they had anticipated. The past months had changed both their lives far more than anything before, so they would have longed for each other's company and counsel. For the first time in years, Anne and Jane had been on their own.

After she had agreed to the divorce (and she had only done so after Jane had begged her to), Anne had left court and settled down in one of the country estates the King had given her. She was no longer queen now, only Anne Boleyn, Marquess of Pembroke, the King's dearest sister. _His dearest sister!_ Fate was sneering at her. But when her anger had calmed down, Anne had accepted this arrangement as the best possible solution. Her daughter Elizabeth would, after all, remain a legitimate princess and her father's most beloved. If Anne could only manage to calm down her pride, she might just have a decent life.

Jane, on the other hand, had never been proud or attention-seeking, but now found herself surrounded by a thousand curious eyes. She had married the King for love, but not for the love she bore him. Unlike Anne, she had never felt particularly attracted to King Henry, although she could understand that his tender attention could easily win over many people. Her heart, however, would always belong to Anne.

Much to her surprise, her ascension to the position of queen had been warmly received by most people at court and in the country. They accepted her as their legitimate queen, unlike Anne, since Catherine of Aragon was now dead and the King therefore a widower, even in the eyes of Catherine's most fervent supporters. Even Eustace Chapuys, the Spanish ambassador, had requested an audience with Queen Jane clearly indicating that the Emperor would support her and expect her to promote his cousin's interests. Jane felt helpless about the entire matter. Politics had never meant anything to her. If only she had Anne's council!

But now, in September, they finally met again to celebrate Princess Elizabeth's third birthday. All eyes were on them curiously awaiting a catfight that never came. The Queen and the King's sister were publicly avoiding each other, but not in a particularly spiteful way. It was a great disappointment for many, but a relief for the King who had feared the worst. A few days after the birthday celebrations, the Queen officially sent for her predecessor to have a private audience with her.

"Lady Anne," Jane greeted her.

Her maids were anxious. Many of them had served under Anne Boleyn and knew her famous temper. They feared what Anne would do now that no force could hold her back. But instead of screaming insults or anything they had expected, the Marquess of Pembroke simply curtseyed.

"Your Majesty."

Jane smiled. "Please sit with me, Lady Anne, so that we may speak. Ladies, you may leave us."

After a moment of awkward silence, a smile finally found its way into Anne's face.

"I have missed you so much," she whispered.

"I have missed you more," Jane returned, her eyes almost filling with tears. "It is so good to see you. I am desperate."

Anne frowned. "Why? Does he not treat you well?"

"King Henry is as kind as I have never seen him before," Jane quickly assured her. "But I feel so misplaced. The crown you left me is far too big for me to wear. Everyone is expecting so much of me, yet I do not know what to do. The Spanish ambassador is beleaguering me to restore the Lady Mary to the King's graces, yet I fear the King's wrath if he would notice that I was meddling in his affairs."

"He never appreciates a woman's involvement in what he considers his matters," Anne grimly agreed. "I had thought that the Spanish creep would come crawling to you. Does he think my withdrawal has any consequences for the Lady Mary's legitimacy? It was never I who bastardised her; it wasn't I who made her a servant to Elizabeth. Henry considers her a bastard and neither I nor you nor a thousand angels could change his mind."

Jane nodded hesitantly. "But she refuses to accept her illegitimacy. I fear what the King will do to her once he loses patience. It isn't her fault either, Anne. I know you were never fond of her, but surely we can both agree that it would be better for everyone if she were at peace with her father again."

"Perhaps you are right," Anne sighed. "Especially seeing how things are going in the North. There are whispers about an uprising. I do not wish to trouble you, but I am honestly concerned about it. I've told Cromwell before that his proceedings would stir up much hatred, but he never listened to me and neither did Henry. Maybe he will listen to you seeing how besotted he is with you at the moment. Could you…?"

"I will warn him about the North," Jane said, "under the condition that you agree with me that we must find a means to reconcile the Lady Mary with her father. I feel I must do something about it and would rather not draw your wrath upon me for doing it."

Anne sighed again. "You are Queen now, Jane, and it is your duty to be a peacemaker. It is this duty that I always neglected. I lack your compassion and patience. Perhaps it is God's will that you must wear this crown now and do as it commands. For the good of England."

Jane nodded smiling. "And for ours."

* * *

At Christmas 1536, the royal court witnessed a situation never before seen in English history when they found themselves in the same room with a king, a queen, and a former queen. They were surprised to see that there was a quiet, almost peaceful atmosphere in the royal family. King Henry and his new wife Jane had invited the King's only legitimate daughter Elizabeth to court along with her mother, the former Queen Anne, who was now proclaimed 'the King's dearest sister'. The courtiers watched with awe as she curtseyed before the King and was hence allowed to sit beside him with her daughter on her lap. Had Anne Boleyn really given in?

Not even King Henry trusted this peace, but his wife had convinced him that it would be a proof of strength and unity if he allowed his daughter's mother in his favours again. Now Jane was sitting on his right and Anne on his left. Actually, everything went perfectly for him, but he felt uneasy nevertheless. He _knew _Anne and her tempers. He feared what she could do once she dropped her mask of courtesy. And he knew that there was something going on.

"What are you conspiring?" He whispered after his conversation with Lady Pole had ended.

"Your Majesty had better ask your wife about this," Anne replied dryly without even looking at him.

Frowning, the King turned around to his Queen. "Jane?"

"With Your Majesty's permission, there is someone else I would like to present to you this Christmas," she replied smiling.

It didn't change the frown on his face, but her sweet gentle smile made it impossible for him to refuse her offer. If Anne had said something like it to him, he would have felt offended, but not now, knowing that there was nothing malicious in Jane. She would do him well. He nodded.

Before him, the chattering courtiers began to split and open up a path upon which a young lady made her way towards the dais. Her auburn hair was modestly hid underneath a gable hood, but it couldn't hide her beauty. For a second, Henry remembered how much he had loved Catalina once. The girl, no, the young woman curtseyed deeply before him.

"Your Majesty, this is…" Jane said, but was interrupted.

"My daughter Mary. You don't need to tell me," the King cut her short, still fascinated by the sight of a person who had once been the pearl of his world.

He had considered inviting her to court after she had finally given in and signed the document acknowledging her illegitimacy, but he had not yet found the time and guts to do it. If he was truly honest with himself, he had dreaded this moment. He knew that he hadn't been the kindest father to her and feared what he would see in her eyes if they ever met again. Much to his surprise, when Mary now lifted her head and looked at him, he saw not anger or reproach but doubt and fear. She was just as helpless as he.

"Mary," he said hypnotised.

"Your Majesty."

She was humble and modest. It was all he had ever longed for, to break her stubbornness and see her accept him as her king again. He smiled warmly.

"Come here," he ordered, but his tone wasn't very severe. He waited for her to reach the bottom of the dais. "I remember that many among you insisted that I put this jewel to death."

Murmurs and whispers ran through the crowd. Lady Mary's face clearly exposed her fearful emotions now. Suddenly the King rose and offered her his hand.

"Do not be afraid, Mary, for nothing now will go against you," he promised.

"Majesty?" She asked confused.

"It's 'father', Mary," the King insisted. He sat back down and made a gesture towards her. "Come next to me."

Her hands still trembling, the Lady Mary did as he asked and placed herself between him and Queen Jane's seat. Her father took her shaking hand into his and smiled. Now, Mary dared to smile, too. She knew she had to share her place upon the dais with Anne Boleyn, whom she despised, and her half-sister who had usurped her title of Princess, but after so many years of loneliness and despair it simply felt good to feel her father's love again and to be where she naturally belonged – no matter whom she shared this honour with.

The King turned to his subjects again with a broad smile on his face. "Look at my ladies. Am I not blessed to be surrounded by so many beautiful women?" He laughed happily. "Je suis en familie!"

* * *

Much to everyone's surprise, the Marquess of Pembroke remained at court after Christmas and did not return to the countryside. Some of her enemies had tried to speak against it, even Cromwell, but the King had turned a blind eye to the matter. He was too occupied with crushing the Northern rebellion and too angry with his Chancellor to care about women's matters.

Even more surprisingly, the former Queen seemed to get along with her successor. She followed every invitation that Queen Jane sent her – and curiously enough, there were some such invitations. Had these two ladies really settled into their new situation? Those who knew Anne's famous temper couldn't believe it. Little did they know.

As usual, Anne and Jane waited for the maids to turn to their business again before they spoke. The Queen and the Marquess had withdrawn to the fireplace they had often sat by when their roles had been reversed. They remained quiet until they were sure no one was listening.

"How is Elizabeth?" Jane asked gently.

"She is healthy and doing well. Lady Bryan assures me that she has never seen a brighter child," Anne replied. "But I would rather speak to you about another matter."

Jane blinked. "This is your worried face, Anne. What is wrong?"

"Dear, I did not know whether to tell you, but I am afraid that the King has taken your maid, Lady Misseldon, as his mistress."

Jane nodded dryly. As much as she hated to admit it, hearing this news hurt her. She did not love Henry, but she cared for him somehow, and to hear that he had replaced her in less than a year was bitter. She knew Anne would see her emotions. Anne always saw right through her.

"He must do as he will."

"But Jane, surely you can see how much trouble it could cause."

"Lady Misseldon is loyal to me no matter what the King has her do," Jane insisted. "Do not trouble yourself for me, Anne. I do not wish to see your face in frowns today for we have much reason to be happy."

A peachy, blushing smile appeared in Jane's face. It only took Anne a few seconds to realise what she was implying.

"You are…?"

"Yes," Jane confirmed happily. "We'll have another child in autumn, my love."

* * *

The King's sister was terribly anxious. He had asked her to a private audience – it would be the first time they were alone since their divorce a year ago. Anne knew not what he intended to say or do, but she feared everything about it. Would he yell at her and threaten her life once again? Or would he ask her to become his mistress once more now that his wife was heavily pregnant? You could never know when it came to Henry.

"Anne," he simply greeted her as she entered.

"Majesty." She curtseyed shivering. He hadn't been this informal with her since before her miscarriage.

"Please sit," the King offered. "Anne, I have asked you here to express my gratefulness."

Now she dared to look at him. Gratefulness? He? Anne's gaze met with his and noticed that he was smiling almost shyly.

"I must admit I had not expected you to be so… pliable. But you have kept the promises you made and have behaved with much decorum. I am even told that you have met with my new Queen in private and have paid respect to her," he went on. "I am very grateful for it."

Anne nodded. "I only wish to please you, my sovereign Lord, and I pray just like everyone else that the Queen will give you the son and heir you so deserve."

"I am sure she will." The King nodded, too.

Only after he'd said it did he realise that his words would certainly hurt her and remind her that she hadn't been able to do what he was sure Jane would accomplish.

"I apologise for my words, Lady Anne, I did not mean to cross you."

"There is no need for apologies, Majesty, for I am certain Her Majesty will give you a son. She is a good Queen and a good wife. Still, I believe it was God's will that we should have been together so that Elizabeth might live," Anne solemnly declared. "She is a credit to her father in every way."

The King smiled assuaged and nodded. "Indeed, my Elizabeth is a perfect jewel. I hold her very dear, so I am glad that we have found a common ground, my Lady."

Both of them smiled, but there was some awkwardness in the moment. They felt as if they needed to say more, but neither knew what. Anne hastily scanned her memory for easy stories to tell, but then she noticed something about him. She had not always been able to predict his moods, but she had always accurately read them. Now, she could clearly see that he was troubled, and it troubled her. After all that had happened, she still cared for him. She couldn't let it go unmentioned.

"Majesty, may I ask what worries burden your thoughts?"

The King frowned. "You are still connoisseur of character, my Lady," he admitted grinding his teeth. "If you must know, it is the Queen I worry about. Her ladies tell me that she does not sleep well often and experiences other displeasing effects of pregnancy. I worry what my son's birth would do to her."

Unbeknown to him, his words truly touched Anne. She had always assumed that he was merely infatuated with Jane and couldn't care less about her well-being as long as she produced a son, but now she could see that there was at least some sincere concern in him. She smiled.

"I am sure Her Majesty will perform admirably. She is stronger than she seems."

"Why would you think so, Anne?"

"I have known her a long time, Majesty. She was my lady-in-waiting once, have you forgotten?" Anne said winking.

Actually, he had forgotten. He hadn't even spared a thought about the past after he'd married Jane, his sweet English rose. But now that Anne reminded him, he was searching her face for traces of malice. She seemed not to hate Jane despite the fact that her own lady had replaced her – how could it be? Was it a trick?

"Do you really wish my wife well?" He found himself asking.

"Yes, of course. She is my Queen and will give England a prince," Anne insisted. She could feel Henry's suspicion. "Majesty… Henry. I know it sounds odd, but I have decided to let bygones be bygones. Queen Jane is a kind woman, I do not hate her. My life is good. I do not wish to be angry anymore."

The King now dared to smile. "I am glad to hear it, Anne, truly glad," he admitted. "If it is so, say you will be by her side when the time comes. You know the burden of being a Queen and you know my wife. If it pleases her, be with her when my son is born and make sure everything is alright."

Anne was baffled to hear it. Was this some kind of peace offer, a truce, or a reception back into the warmer places of his heart? She did not know and did not care. It was a chance to be with Jane when their child was born. She accepted happily.

* * *

"Ahhh!"

Her screaming had been going on for hours now. Her face was pale and red at the same time and covered in large drops of sweat. The grasp of her hands was getting weaker.

The Queen's ladies were running around in terror, all looking less than orderly and deeply worried. When the birth had begun, many had wondered why the Queen's rival, the Marquess of Pembroke, had been ordered to attend, but now nobody cared anymore. The Marquess had never let go off the Queen's hand and was constantly murmuring encouraging words, but nothing seemed to help. The King had already been informed that he might soon need to choose between mother and child.

"Jane, don't give up, I beg you," Anne whispered. "For the love of God, don't give up. You can do it, I know you can. Please, don't give up."

But the screaming went on.

Hours later, the King was woken by his brother-in-law, Edward Seymour. In his dreams, he had seen Jane dying. Was it true? It couldn't be or else Seymour wouldn't be smiling.

"Her Majesty has been delivered of a healthy son," Seymour announced.

"A son?" The King rose from the table. "I have a son?"

Seymour nodded. "Yes Majesty, a healthy son."

"And my wife?"

"Exhausted but healthy."

Henry needed to hear no more. He pushed Seymour aside and rushed towards the Queen's chambers, his heart beating like a drum. The Queen's ladies were curtseying deeply before him, but he did not look at any of them. His steps led him towards her chamber, still smelling of boiled water and herbs. And there she lay – Jane, his wife, regally clothed in velvet dresses. Her face was pale.

"Jane, my sweet Jane," he murmured in astonishment.

"Majesty…" She said quietly.

He ventured to her and sat on the side of her bed. "How do you feel?"

"The most happy."

Both of them smiled, although Jane's smile was weak and pale. Approaching steps disturbed their togetherness. Henry turned around to find his former wife carrying a linen bundle. The broad, delighted smile in her face finally convinced him of her sincere agreement with her new situation. He had a son and Anne was pleased.

"Please meet your son," Anne said handing him the baby.

"My son," the King whispered. "My Edward." Then he looked at Jane again. "My wonderful wife, how can I ever thank you enough?"

"You can ask Lady Anne to be his godmother," Jane whispered. "Without her, I would not have been able to do it."

His eyes open wide, the King turned to Anne. "Is it so?"

"If Her Majesty insists, I would not object," Anne admitted. "The Prince is a perfectly charming babe."

"Yes, indeed he is," the King agreed looking at his son. "Then it is settled. If it pleases my Ladies, we shall prepare the christening and the Lady Anne may carry him."

* * *

For a few days, the court enjoyed pure happiness. But as it is with many things in life, this did not last long, and the fall was even harder than expected. The Queen had seemed to recover well from the arduous birthing process, but after some nights, she did not wake up easily. Her temperature rose, she could not keep her food in and could no longer leave her bed. Doctor Linacre was immediately sent for but could only state the obvious: It was childbed fever. Whether the Queen lived or died was now entirely in God's hands.

"What if she… what if she dies?" The King asked terrified, tears building up in his eyes.

"She won't. She is strong," his former wife Anne assured him and herself at the same time.

"Is this God's game, to give me happiness and take it away again? I cannot think that he would deprive an innocent child of his mother so soon," Henry murmured on. "And my wife, I need my wife! What if she dies? How can I be without her?"

"I don't know." Anne was being sincere. She could not imagine a life without Jane. "Please do not fret."

"How can I not fret knowing that her life is hanging by such thin a thread?" The King yelled angrily, but quickly calmed down again. "I am sorry, Anne, I am sorry. But I need my wife."

He seemed helpless, utterly helpless. Anne had never felt this sincere desire to embrace him before. Given the dire circumstances, she decided to give into this feeling. For a second, the King seemed stupefied by their physical contact, but he too realised how soothing it was. He folded his arms around her and sobbed quietly.

"She cannot die, Anne, she just can't," he whispered. "Say you'll go to her and save her."

"Majesty, surely you had better go yourself."

Henry sniffed. "I can't. It would break my heart to see her like this. Please, Anne, please do it for me, please go to her bed and pull her from the devil's hands."

She did not know what to say, so she simply nodded and held him for another few minutes before letting go and following his orders.

* * *

Jane was deadly pale. It broke Anne's heart as she saw her beloved like this. Her hands trembling she sank to her knees beside the bed and tried to fight back her tears.

"Oh Janie…"

In her despair, Anne bent over and placed a soft kiss on Jane's lips, but they were almost lifeless. There was no response. Her face distorted into bitter sadness, Anne took Jane's hand and pressed it against her lips.

"Don't go… Please!" She whispered. "Just because you have done everything you have promised, please don't leave me. I cannot be without you, Jane. You are the milk of human kindness, the light in my dark, dark world. Without you, my life would be a desert, a howling wilderness. Don't leave me alone."

Anne sobbed as she noticed no reaction from her beloved.

"Why? Please, God, in your mercy, don't take her away. Our son needs his mother and I need my love. You know I have never loved anyone like her."

Was that a whisper? Anne quickly turned to Jane again, looking at her pale face. Her lips were moving, but there was no sound emerging from them. Her fluttering eyelids were a sign of her struggle.

"Janie… don't leave me. We have everything we wanted; we have a son and daughter and God knows how perfect they are. You should see Edward; he is the sweetest boy who ever lived," Anne told her desperately. "Please, Janie, say something. Anything. Please show me that you are still with me."

Her lips were moving again, but Anne could not hear anything. She bent over almost pressing her ear to Jane's lips. Now, her heart filled with a pain sharp enough to cut it in halves. Jane had said something, and of all the words in the world she could have said, she had chosen two to be her last ones.

"Love you."

Anne's eyes became waterfalls.

* * *

On the 24th of October, Queen Jane died, leaving behind a disturbed husband who withdrew into seclusion, a desperate step-daughter who had hoped that Jane would further her cause, a baby son who would never get to know his mother, and a lover who had lost everything the moment Jane's heart stopped.

Anne Boleyn headed her funeral as chief mourner, leading a way into a dark future. What they had once hoped would be the dawn of a new era for England had now turned into uncertainty for everyone. The King vanished from public life as did his eldest daughter, the Lady Mary, who feared both Anne Boleyn and the dead Queen's brother, Edward Seymour. With the King gone, a struggle for power would soon begin. It would be all push and shove.

And in the middle of the rising storm, a single woman was standing by her own mourning the loss of the one person who had been at the centre of her world. She was staring sadly at the epitaph written for Queen Jane.

_Here lies Jane, a Phoenix, by whose death_

_Another Phoenix life gave breath:_

_It is to be lamented much_

_The world at once ne'er knew two such._

They were words of truth, for in all her sadness, Anne still had Edward with her, the baby boy Jane had died giving birth to. Their son. Their prince. Everything that was left. Anne Boleyn looked at the marble grave of her lover and took a decision: She would be Edward's patron and warden from now until the day she died, and she would make sure Jane's death hadn't been in vain. She would make Edward the greatest king England had ever seen. She would do it for her, for Jane, because she had never truly lived except in her eyes.

* * *

**AN: Thanks for waiting. Glad you liked my last story and hope you'll like this one although it's a bit unconventional. Please review this one as well, I'm delighted to get feedback!**

** To s m Neal: You are mistaken, I do not hate KOA and Mary. How could I, I've never met them. It is chance that my last two stories did not play well for them, but then again, neither did history. If you'd read my longest story, God Works in Mysterious Ways, you'd know that I'm actually very fond of Mary. **


	6. Anna Regina

_Premise: What if Anne had been a child of Henry VII and Henry had been a Boleyn? How would England have changed? _

_Characters: Anne Tudor, Henry Boleyn, Catherine of Aragon, Mary Tudor, Charles Brandon, Lady Mary_

_Please note: I altered Henry's birth year – otherwise Elizabeth Howard would've been 9 when she gave birth to him. If ever you're confused, check the end for birthdates and family trees._

* * *

**ANNA REGINA**

* * *

1519. Anne looked at Catalina with the distinct notion that both of them had somehow cheated fate. The way they were sitting here quietly staring out the windows at the Welsh marches just seemed oddly wrong.

"You ought to have been queen," Anne remarked. "You and Arthur ought to have ruled England… and none of this would have ever happened. You were meant to be queen."

Catalina gave her a bittersweet smile. "And yet it is you wearing the crown now – Queen Anne of England."

The two women exchanged sorrowful glances. They were both born royalty, but neither of them looked anything like a fairy tale princess right now. Catalina, the elder, was a thirty-four-year-old widow whose years in poverty, alone and abandoned by everyone, had made her auburn beauty fade to resignation and coldness. Anne, her former sister-in-law, was only eighteen and could have been a pretty young lady – if it hadn't been for the dark, gloomy eyes and her shockingly slender figure. Fate had not been gracious on either of them.

"I am only queen because my husband is king," Anne said bitterly.

"You know this to be a falsehood. On the contrary, Your Majesty, he is only king because he is married to you," Catalina corrected her sternly. "If it had not been for your marriage, the rebels would have dethroned him four years ago."

Anne sighed remembering the year 1515 – the year that had changed her life. It was the year that she, mere woman that she was, had become queen against all odds… and against her will.

Once, the throne had been meant for her elder brother Arthur to whom Catalina had been wed, but he had died when Anne had been but a toddler. This had left her father, King Henry VII, with only daughters to inherit his crown. He had barred the eldest, Margaret, from the succession in order to safely marry her to the King of Scotland. After his death, his third daughter Mary had also been removed from the succession to become Queen of France. This, of course, had left the crown to his second daughter Elizabeth, the beautiful namesake of her own mother. She had married Richard de la Pole, a man with his own claim to the crown whose elder brothers had already rebelled against King Henry. By this marriage, Henry hoped, he would pacify the desires of the brothers.

… _it passes through my daughters to their heirs males, _that's what Henry's will stated.

Of course, after his death, Richard had himself crowned king along with his wife without mentioning that he was legally but a regent for his children. Nobody dared to defy him at the time due to his military strength and prowess. But that was in 1509.

Six years later, in the year that would change Anne's life forever, bad things had already happened. Her sister Elizabeth had died from consumption – childless. Discord and rebellion had grown anew after many accused the King of letting her die and of usurping a crown which legally wasn't his. A new civil war had been lurking on the horizon. Then, Mary's elderly husband, the King of France, had died, conveniently leaving her a beautiful young widow. She'd been just what Richard needed to stay in power… but Mary had defied him by quickly marrying the nobleman whom Richard had sent to bring her back to England: Charles Brandon.

Richard had been furious. Anne's memories were so vivid that she could still hear him screaming and destroying the palace furniture. At fourteen, she had been old enough to understand that her sister's life was in danger if nobody pacified Richard's ever-rising temper. She had acted out of love for the only sibling she had ever truly felt any connection to when she had offered Richard her hand in marriage. Mary, she said, had been excluded from the succession anyway. Richard had accepted her reasoning.

And now, four years later, Anne still couldn't fully regret her decision despite the fact that Richard treated her without respect or manners. He kept her in the countryside, far away from court, and only dropped by in order to demand his marital duties in hope for a son. At court, Anne knew, he paraded his mistresses around, of which he had plenty. Anne didn't care. She despised Richard, but she could not regret her offer of marriage – because it had saved Mary's life. Yes, her sister had been banished from court, but at least she and her husband remained alive.

"It seems easy to forget, these days, but Richard's claim to the crown is much thinner than yours," Catalina interrupted Anne's bad memories. "You are Henry VII's daughter, the man whom God clearly favoured with his victory on Bosworth Field. You had many siblings, but all of them stepped out of the succession in one way or the other. Can you not see? The Lord wanted you to be queen, Anne."

Her kindness forced Anne to smile for a second, but soon a sharp pain brought her back to reality. She put her hand on her stomach. "But not this way," she said. "This life feels so wrong. Twice have I been with child and twice did they leave this world before taking their first breath. And this child… I can feel that it will not live to see the light, either."

Catalina put her hand on the Queen's in an attempt to comfort her. "I know, Your Majesty… it is because you are living in sin," she said as gently as she could. "You have married your sister's widower, which is why God will not grant you children. It says so in Leviticus."

"But he got a Papal dispensation," Anne reminded her.

"Only after the wedding and only by bullying His Holiness. Neither you nor the Pope truly wanted this to happen, and neither did God. It is a sin," Catalina insisted. "Lord Richard had his chance for kingship when he married your sister, but when he let her die, God clearly showed that He didn't favour him. Your dying children are proof of it."

Knitting her fingers nervously, Anne looked at Catalina. She admired her strength and determination and had always done so. Why Richard refused to pay her a pension or find her a new husband she'd never understood. Catalina was a royal princess after all and a woman of many talents. But the King had decided to forget about her, and by visiting her here in Ludlow, Anne was already defying the King's orders.

"You fear him," Catalina realised.

Anne nodded, remembering the bruises that always remained when Richard left her. "Yes."

"But he should fear you. Anne, you are stronger than him, stronger than most men! He only rules through fear when you could rule through love and respect. Believe me, you should be ruling this kingdom and not him."

"I believe you, I really do… but I cannot see how I am to achieve this miracle."

"Well, go to London and do whatever you feel like doing. You are Henry VII's daughter! Tell me, dear, what can he really do to you? Do you think he would even dare to raise his hand against you with all the courtiers around? No, he wouldn't, because all of them would rise for you instantly. Your sisters and you are beloved by the people, and always have been, whilst the man falsely calling himself your husband is but a brute and usurper," Catalina said fiercely.

There was something in her melodic voice that erased all fear from Anne's heart. She straightened her shoulders and nodded as a fierce sparkle entered her eyes.

"You are right. I am Anne Tudor, rightful queen of England, and as God is my witness, I will never be afraid again. In time, I will return to London and prove to the world just what Tudor women are capable of."

* * *

1522. It had taken Anne all her skills of persuasion to get where she was now, but she was certain the effort had been worth it. After her fourth miscarriage in 1521, she had asked her husband to be allowed back in his vicinity claiming that her chances of carrying a child to term would greatly increase if she were closer to him. Richard had swallowed the lie and allowed her to move to Hatfield House, two hours from London. Even though she had to leave Catalina behind for this, Anne had known it was her only chance.

And now she had even managed to get herself back to court. There would be a magnificent feast including a masked pageant and Anne would be part of it. Of course she had not asked her husband to allow her to participate straight away. Instead, she had made many suggestions of who could take part including her own sister Mary. Anne knew Richard had not forgiven her sister that she had chosen a minor courtier over him and would surely object. In the end, her plan had worked: Richard had turned down each of her offers, seemingly making her more and more sad, so that he finally gave in and allowed her, at least, to participate.

She had not been allowed to court before, however, and had been forced to practice on her own. Richard wasn't taking any risks with her – his plan was to remove her from the feast again once the pageant was over. Anne would make sure to foil this plan. She had made careful preparations for months now to ensure that all eyes would be on her. But what if they didn't recognise her? She had barely been to court her entire life, having first lived at the nursery in Eltham and later living shut away in the countryside. Would they even know she was their queen?

Her heart beating like a drum, Anne stiffened her shoulders and followed the other ladies playing the graces. Their white dresses were much lighter and revealing than anything she was used to, but oddly enough, Anne found herself enjoying this. As she stepped into the Main Hall surrounded by applauding courtiers, she instantly knew this was where she belonged. This was her place.

The pageant began, with gallantly dressed young men trying to breach the castle that imprisoned the graces. Anne was standing on top of the castle next to a shivering young girl named Dorothy, who was the King's own niece, daughter of his brother Edmund whom the King himself had beheaded as a traitor. The unknown Queen felt compelled to put a hand on the girl's to let her know that they both shared the same fate. To others, the _chateau vert_ seemed to be a play, but for Anne and Dorothy it was but an allusion to their real fate: they were Richard's prisoners.

Anne smiled gracefully at the young knights in their dark robes. If only this play was the truth, if only a knight would come and rescue her! But those hopes were vain. No, Catalina had made it abundantly clear to her that only she could rescue herself. She had to be her own knight.

"Lady, Desire overcomes all!" The leader of the men said followed by a gunshot.

The attack had begun. Anne's heart leapt in a giddy whirl when the dark ladies holding her prisoner were chased away by the knights. One of them named Honesty was fighting his way up the castle and reached out for her hand.

"Perseverance, you are my prisoner now," the man said smirking.

Anne didn't know what to feel. No one had ever been so bold with her. It was a crass disregard of protocol, though she could hardly blame him for not recognising her. And yet, his words pleased her more than any respect the courtiers might have paid her. They were fun and God knew she hadn't had much fun since her marriage to Richard.

They left the castle in pairs and lined up on the hardwood. Servants came to take their masks away. Anne felt a shiver rushing through her body as her safety was taken away from her. Now was the moment of truth – would anyone recognise her? She wanted to look at the courtiers, but the dance began immediately and she did not wish to make any wrong step.

The murmurs began around her. _She looks just like… can it be… haven't seen her in years… how she's grown… so charming… _Every word she heard made Anne feel stronger. The gossip was already spreading, expanding her power with every tongue that uttered her name.

But when she saw him again, she forgot about all her plans for a second and let her curiosity get the better off her by asking: "And who are you?"

He took her hand smiling gently. "Henry," he said. "Henry Boleyn. And you are…?"

Anne's heart was beating so hard that she was sure he could see it. Around her, the murmurs were unmistakable. Everyone was whispering her name by now, but for him, for Henry Boleyn, Anne would say it herself.

"I'm Anne Tudor… Queen of England."

* * *

1522. It was only two months since her stunning return to court and already, Anne could feel the support for her growing. She had made a massive impression on the entire court during the feast once people had realised who she was. Their hearts had flocked to her since like sheep to their shepherd. Simply by looking at her, many recognised her as their true queen and true daughter of Henry VII. It wasn't her good looks that won them over – in fact, Anne had always been the least pretty of the Tudor sisters – but she possessed a natural gift of inspiring awe in others. Her eyes, dark and dangerous, were so captivating that no one could escape their gaze.

Richard was too proud to realise this; there was no other explanation as to why he allowed his wife to remain at court. Anne began to ask more and more of him and oddly enough, he barely refused any of her wishes. Was it a bad conscience? Did he simply not bother? Anne didn't know, but frankly, she didn't care either as long as he allowed her to do as she pleased.

On this particular day, two months after the masque, Anne had even been granted permission to go to the countryside and visit her disgraced sister Mary. Richard all but spit out her name, yet he allowed Anne to go. Now, after years of separation, the young Queen finally found herself hugging her sister once more.

"I cannot believe how tall you've become," Mary, former queen of France, whispered half-crying. "Your Majesty, I mean. Please, you must excuse our lodgings, but…"

"No," Anne firmly shook her head. "I know the dire circumstances my husband put you in. You need not apologise for anything. Only I ask that you introduce me to the company I'll be sharing tonight."

Mary nodded relieved and lead her into a small dining room. "Your Majesty, may I introduce my husband, Mister Charles Brandon?"

"Majesty," he bowed.

"Mister Brandon, it is such a pleasure to meet you in the flesh. I have always wanted to thank you for what you have done for my sister. Pray, tell me, where are your daughters? I've heard you were blessed with two of them already."

"Yes, Majesty, their names are Frances and Eleanor. I'm afraid they're already asleep, but I can wake them if you wish to meet them."

"That will not be necessary," Anne replied. She turned her head to see that there were more guests at the table. One of them she recognised instantly, but she waited to be introduced formally.

"Majesty, please meet my good friend Henry Boleyn," Charles Brandon said venturing towards the table. "He has been a great help for Mary and I during these troublesome years, as were his gracious siblings. May I introduce Mary and George Boleyn?"

All of them bowed or curtseyed to her smiling proudly. Anne returned the smile gladly, feeling nothing but sincere friendliness coming from them.

"It is a meeting of families, then," she joked. "Shall we eat?"

They dined together, talking and laughing as gleefully as Anne had never experienced before. For once in her life she felt at ease, accepted, respected. The Boleyn siblings might have been Charles's friends, but they made her feel like they were hers, too. Beside her sister and Catalina, Anne had never had friends before. It was a wonderful feeling.

And then there was him… Henry… and his glances whenever he thought she wasn't looking. They sent a shiver down her spine. Could it be? Was he looking at her because she was the Queen or because…. Because he liked her? Her thoughts began to centre around him more and more.

"How do they know each other, your husband and Master Boleyn?" Anne whispered in her sister's ear.

"They shared a tutor in their youth and they met again on the battlefield. They're both military men. And both of them like pretty women, so they feel a connection, I suppose," Mary said with a hint of irony in her voice.

"Does he have a pretty woman of his own?" Anne asked. "No, forgive me; I shouldn't have been so bluntly curious."

Mary smiled. "Never mind, you are the Queen; you can ask anything as bluntly as you wish. As far as I know, he's been taking a mistress once in a while since his wife died, but it's nothing serious."

"He's a widower?"

"Yes he is. His wife died giving birth to a stillborn son a few years ago. Such a sad story," Mary said nodding. "Charles and I helped him through it, him and his little daughter. She's my namesake, you know? Of course not named for me especially, but I feel connected to her somehow. She's a sweet little thing and a playmate of my Frances."

Anne nodded, unable to turn her eyes away from Henry. So he was a widower… he was free… He happened to return her gaze sending a hot rush of blood to her head.

"You know he asked to be invited when Charles told him you'd come?" Mary mentioned. "It would appear that you made an impression on him somehow…"

Blushing, Anne looked into her sister's eyes knowing that Mary was already seeing what Anne refused to accept: Despite being married, Anne was falling for another man. She was falling for Henry Boleyn.

* * *

1522. She could not turn her eyes away from him. He was not a perfect sight to behold, his hair already thinning and his nose slightly odd, but there was something about him that appealed to the Queen as nothing had ever done before. Perhaps it was Henry's eyes that lit up every time he smiled – and he did that a lot when they met. Of course their meetings were secret. Neither of them dared to speak about the nature of their promenades, but in their soul, both of them knew they shared a common romantic affection.

Any other man would have stepped back knowing that it could cost his head to pay court to the Queen, but not Henry Boleyn. He had been a hot-heated and romantic-minded man all his life. He would not step back from any pursuit, even if the stakes were insanely high. He was willing to risk his life only to spend a few moments with her – with Anne. Not with the Queen, just Anne.

They were sitting outside in the gardens of his home at Hever, Henry playing a little tune on the lute that he had composed earlier.

"It is beautiful," Anne sighed.

"It was inspired by you," he returned.

Blood rushed through her veins as he bent over to kiss her. It wasn't the first time he'd done it, but it felt like a thunderstorm over and over again. Anne knew she had long left safe territory and was now swimming in perilous waters. She didn't mind. She simply loved Henry.

"Oh my Queen… by daily proof you shall me find to be to you both loving and kind."

Anne kissed him once more. "Henry…"

He put away the lute and let his gaze wander over the hedges and shrubs. "Does it mean anything to you, all of this? Do I mean anything to you?" He suddenly asked.

"What do you mean?" Anne frowned. "Do you not know how dear you are to me, to my heart? Does it not please you to be here with me, now, surrounded by all this beauty?"

"I am a pious man, Your Majesty, and I am neither a traitor nor an adulterer," Henry returned. "All I know is that I would gladly die for you and I wish for nothing more than Your Majesty's happiness. But what does it make me? Am I anything to you?"

Anne grabbed his hand. "You are everything to me!"

"But as what? A beau? A paramour?" Henry shook his head. "It cannot be like this, Your Majesty."

"Oh, Henry, don't…" the Queen said half angrily, half sadly.

"Because I know how it would be otherwise!" He returned in despair. "The King would have my head if he knew of my affections for you, or worse, yours for me! I would be willing to pay the price, but I cannot endure the thought of what he might do to you. We cannot proceed like this."

Anne rose to her feet, her mind running around in circles. He was right, of course he was, but why did he have to remind her of Richard? Why did he remind her of the prison she was kept in? Why?

"Forgive me," she said bitterly, a glimpse of a tear in her eye. "I spoke plainly of my true feelings."

Then she turned and went away, almost running, ignoring the fact that he was calling her name. She ran away from the pain, but while running, she suddenly realised that she had to run towards a solution.

* * *

1522. "I cannot bear it anymore," Anne said fiercely. "Even the thought of his hands upon me makes me sick. I believe now truly that we are living in sin if we call each other a married couple. It is against God's will."

Catalina de Aragon nodded firmly. "I have told you so before, Your Majesty. It is time you acted upon it. Yours is the crown, not his."

"I know, and I mean to reclaim it just as my father defended the Lancastrian claim at Bosworth Field… only this time, the claims of both York and Lancaster rest with me. Richard's but the descendant of a Yorkist woman, a sister to kings, but nothing in her own right. He ought not to be king."

"I am glad to hear it," Catalina affirmed her. "So I assume you are seeking an annulment?"

"I would, but only His Holiness could grant me that, and I am certain my husband will not stand by idly while I write letters to Rome," Anne admitted gnawing her teeth.

A smile entered Catalina's face. "Perhaps I can be of service in this. Your husband has never bothered to acknowledge anything I do, much less whom I am writing to. But my nephew is the Emperor and my parents were most Catholic monarchs – I am convinced the Holy Father would accept the sincerity of your wishes if I conveyed them to him. And my nephew would surely defend your claim and your safety since he has never been fond of Richard's policies."

"You would do that?" Anne asked surprised. "Why?"

"Why not? Does the Lord not compel us to help others whenever we can? Can I not wish for a wiser monarch on the English throne? I may never have been England's queen, but you still have the chance to," Catalina said almost solemnly. "I want you to be queen in your own right, Anne."

"I shall never forget that," Anne assured her. "And I promise to change your situation as soon as I can. You will return to court and be treated with every respect a Dowager Princess of Wales deserves. I will find you a good, gentle husband if you wish."

Catalina sighed. "That I do no ask of you. I am old, Your Majesty, and almost certainly no longer able to bear children. No man would want me for a wife," she remarked bitterly. "But may I ask, why this sudden interest in marriage? Do you plan to remarry once this charade with Lord Richard is over?"

Anne bit her lip, trying not to seem nervous. "Maybe. Well, no, certainly. If I am queen truly, I will need heirs to succeed me and God willing a lawful marriage will bring forth such desired fruits."

The women exchanged glances. Anne detested the way Catalina's Spanish eyes saw right through her, always. A dark smile graced the elder woman's lips.

"And you have someone in mind already; do you not, Your Majesty?"

"I… may have considered a gentleman or two," Anne admitted.

"I do not mean to be blunt or impolite, forgive me. It's just so lonely and tiresome in these marches that I sometimes crave news more than anything else," Catalina admitted. "You need not speak about your personal matters with me."

Anne shook her head. "No, I do not mind, I was simply astonished that you knew. As a matter of fact, yes, there is a certain gentleman I would gladly marry if God so wills it." Her eyes began to sparkle. "His name is Henry Boleyn. He's but a knight's son, but a fierce warrior and a man of many talents. He has been wed already, but sadly his wife died, leaving him alone with his little daughter Mary."

"Mary," Catalina breathed out the name. "Such a sweet name. And this man… this Henry Boleyn… does he know yet?"

"Does he know what?"

"That you like him? That you plan to annul your marriage and make him king instead?" Catalina elaborated.

Anne blushed. "He knows of my fondness for him as the feeling is mutual. We have been exchanging secret letters for some weeks now. But of the annulment, no, I did not speak to anyone except you."

"And perhaps it is better that way. Still, he ought to know about the sincerity of your affections, or else he might think himself nothing but a toy you wish to use. You could give him some token of your affection. A knighthood, maybe, or a seat in the council?"

"Richard won't allow it," Anne returned gloomily.

"Not today, but remember: his days are numbered. It won't be long before the council will be your council and then, you will be able to appoint anyone you like," Catalina said. "Never forget, dear Anne, that it is you who wields ultimate power in this kingdom. You are Queen."

* * *

1523. Richard was rather tired when he walked up to the council room this morning, feeling a little more bored than usual at the prospect of conversing with his councillors. They would advise against a war with France – again. It was a tedious business, yet Richard was prepared to talk it over. But for what he would see when he entered the room, nothing in the world could have prepared him.

"… and it is therefore our expressed order and command that… Oh," Queen Anne said. She was sitting at the top of the table dressed in a splendid purple gown, wearing a small coronet on her raven hair.

Around the table the councillors were seated, including a few faces Richard had never seen before, some he was sure he had never appointed to council (such as his ambassador, Thomas Boleyn), and some he would have surely never had appointed (like Charles Brandon, that traitor). All of them were looking at him with strange expressions on their faces.

"What is the meaning of this? This is the Royal Council," he demanded to know in a booming voice.

Anne smiled gently. "This _is _the Royal Council indeed, which is why I decided to join it. I am the Queen after all."

"You are but a woman, you ought not to meddle in the affairs of men," Richard returned spitefully and looked around again. "And who are these men anyway? I never appointed them."

"No, I did," Anne said unflinching. "I decided to surround myself with those I trust the most."

Richard's eyes narrowed in anger. "You have no right to do that! Get off my seat, wife!"

The tension was now palpable. Every councillor present held their breath as Anne straightened her shoulders and rose from her chair. "If you looked closer, _my Lord_, you would find that it is actually my seat as I am the Queen." Her voice was harsh and crystal-clear. "But I am glad you have come, for I wanted to inform you in person that our marriage is at an end. In fact, there is no need to end what has never been. You and I were never truly man and wife."

Silence. The councillors hastily looked from Queen to King and from King to Queen. Richard's head became redder by the second, an artery visibly pulsating underneath his skin.

"You…. You cannot do that! I had a dispensation!"

"Which the Pope has withdrawn as it was only obtained by force." Anne didn't even bat an eyelash. "You were my sister's husband and thus unfit to marry me as it is against the laws of both God and men. It has been brought to light by learned opinion and our marriage has been annulled by His Holiness. All that remains for..:"

"You cannot do that!" Richard interrupted her.

But Anne would have none of this. "All that remains is for you to choose where to live and withdraw there as quickly as possible."

"You wench, you wicked little wench, you will never go through with this!" Richard yelled.

Within a split-second, half the council had risen to their feet unsheathing their daggers. Charles Brandon, the one who despised the King most, even pointed his sword at Richard. "How dare you speak to the Queen like that?"

Richard laughed darkly. "What, do you think I am afraid of your lapdogs? You cannot harm me. I am the King of England!"

"You were the King of England," Anne corrected him. "Guards, would you please escort Lord Richard from the palace grounds?"

They had to drag him away, but Anne didn't care. She sat down quietly, her face composed and regal. She could see the awe in her councillors gazes as they watched Richard being brought away. His reign over her and over England was over at last. Now, finally, Anne's golden age would begin.

* * *

1523. England rejoiced upon hearing the news of Richard's disposal. There was joy and laughter in every house of London, people mocking their one-time King and praising their Queen at the same time. The court, too, was delighted at the prospect of having a young, fierce Queen to rule over them instead of a war-hungry ill-tempered man. They were all dealt a new hand now and could hope to gain favours from Queen Anne. The first days after Richard's departure, at least, made it seem very likely that there were favours to be gained from the Queen.

First, she ennobled Charles Brandon, her sister's husband, and created him Duke of Suffolk. It was not only right and proper for the husband of a princess and former queen, but also a clear message to Richard since the earldom of Suffolk had once been his domain. Brandon was also made head of the council jointly with the Duke of Norfolk.

Then she gave an earldom to Thomas Boleyn, the former ambassador to France, which surprised many people since he had been relatively obscure until now. It seemed, however, that the Queen put much trust in his family, for shortly after the first ennoblements, she bestowed the title Marquess of Pembroke on Boleyn's elder son Henry and the title Viscount Rochford on his younger son, George.

But the most important change, and perhaps the most curious, was the return of Catalina de Aragon. Most Englishmen had long forgotten about the Spanish bride they had once cheered for. Now she returned in purple clothes symbolising her connection to royalty and was officially styled as Dowager Princess of Wales, making her third woman in the kingdom right behind the Queen and the Duchess of Suffolk. It was a triumph for Anne and justice for Catalina.

Christmas 1523. The feasting days were filled with merry and joy. Fourteen years of turbulence following the death of Henry VII had finally come to an end as the crown was now, by affirmation of Parliament, firmly vested in Queen Anne and her children. Earlier this year, her sister Mary had given birth to a healthy little son named Henry. Many had taken it as a sign that the dire years were over and that the Tudor dynasty was to flourish once more. It also made them hope that their Queen would soon bear sons of her own; which was all the more likely because on the fourth day of Christmas, Anne was in labour.

No one had been surprised by her desire to marry lawfully and quickly, though some had doubted her choice of Henry Boleyn, who had been born a commoner. Some even feared history would repeat itself with Henry trying to overshadow his wife and using her as a marionette, but their fears were wiped out when it was announced that he would be styled King Consort. At the time of the marriage, only few people knew that their modest and pious Queen was already with child.

And on the 28th of December, Anne was delivered of a healthy child at last. Years of miscarriages ended when her baby inhaled and screamed loudly. It wasn't the son and heir England had hoped for, but her daughter was a strong and healthy child nonetheless. It was a clear sign that Richard's curse was broken.

Smitten with his new-born daughter's beauty, King Henry dared to ask: "What shall we name her?"

"I would have loved to name her for my dear sister, but we already have a daughter named Mary," Anne replied. She had quickly taken to refer to Henry's infant daughter as 'her Mary', not wanting the child to feel abandoned or lonely. "But I would not name her for my other sister since I have barely ever met Margaret."

Henry nodded. "Then you ought to call her Catherine, for the woman who is just as a sister to you."

"Catherine…" Anne's eyes filled with joy as she pondered the idea. "Catherine, Princess of England."

Her husband placed a kiss upon her forehead and smiled. "Shall I tell the Dowager Princess or do you ask this privilege, my Queen?"

* * *

1525. It had all come down to this. Anne knew she should have seen it coming the day she had Richard dragged out of council, but she had refused to entertain the idea. Now, her darkest fears had finally become reality. She had reached the point of no return.

Two years earlier, everything had seemed so bright when she had wed Henry. Everyone had been delighted to hear of the birth of Princess Catherine – everyone except Richard and his men. He had begun to spread word that Catherine was bastard since Anne was still legally his wife and thus an adulteress and a treasonous whore. The whispers even spread to Europe. In 1524, there was a short uprising which was utterly crushed by the Duke of Suffolk, but despite knowing Richard was behind it, no reliable proof could be found.

Then Anne miscarried a boy. It was not only a personal tragedy for the Queen and King but also a matter of national politics since Richard's claims gained new momentum. If, as Anne claimed, she was rightfully Henry's wife, why didn't God grant them a son and heir? Even her own courtiers began to mumble.

His slanders turned to violence in early 1525 when Richard began to gather men and form an army in the North of England. The young Queen suddenly found herself under dire threat. It was a crisis of enormous degree that Anne knew she couldn't face alone. Unable to turn to Catalina's nephew, who was currently fighting in Pavia, she opted for the second best choice and begged King Francis to aid her. Lucky for her, the King begrudged Richard his plans for war against France and agreed to help the Queen – on certain conditions.

Together, their forces had vastly outnumbered all of Richard's followers, and the uprising dispersed before it even reached London. Richard had tried to flee to the continent but had been caught by Imperial soldiers in Antwerp and promptly returned to the English shores as the Emperor's revenge for his aunt's maltreatment.

And now Anne found herself holding a quill, about to write down Richard's name one last time in a document that would go down in history: His death warrant. He had been tried for treason and condemned to die at her pleasure. But did she really feel pleasured? Could anyone truly enjoy a man's death, even if it was his worst enemy? He had been an anointed king once, after all. But Anne had no choice. If she wanted safety for her reign, if she wanted the respect of her fellow kings, if she wanted to rid herself of the dreadful memories Richard's fists had beaten into her, she had no choice but to sign it.

Her quill scratched the paper as she wrote:

_Richard de la Pole, King Dowager._

* * *

1525. After the dreadful executions of spring, Queen Anne finally found herself smiling again in summer. She had many reasons to be happy, the first and foremost being her recently discovered new pregnancy. Without the shadow of Richard constantly scaring her, Anne was sure that she would carry this child to term. But there was more.

Only a week ago, she had decreed that the title of Marquess of Pembroke, which she had once assigned to her beloved Henry, would now be the official title of her own step-daughter Mary. It seemed only right and proper to treat the girl with honour and respect even if she wasn't Anne's kin and nobody objected to it. Mary wasn't a Tudor princess like her younger sister, but she was Anne's and Henry's daughter and nobody was allowed to doubt it. One day, Anne hoped, she would find a high-ranking noble for Mary to wed so as to underline how important her relationship with her little step-daughter was to the Queen.

There was more still. Today, she would be making a very special gift to a person long deserving of kindness. It was a matter of the heart.

"Your Majesty," Catalina said curtseying.

"Your Highness," Anne returned smiling. "Walk with me for a while, will you?"

They took to the gardens enjoying the sweet scents of the flowers.

"As you might remember, I engaged the help of the King of France in order to fight back this evil traitor de la Pole," Anne began. She had taken to the habit of not calling Richard by his first name ever again. "And in return, he has received a certain sum of money and made some demands. One of these demands was brought before me only recently as it is associated with the King's private life. I take it you have heard of Queen Claude's demise last year?"

Catalina nodded solemnly. "I pitied her deeply. A mother of many children taken away at so young an age."

"Yes, it is a very sad affair. Francis has grieved for her deeply, but now that his mourning period is over, he has begun to look for a new wife and as a matter of fact, he called upon the favour I owe him still," Anne began carefully. "It would appear that the King of France has set an eye on you and he asked me to bring the matter before you."

Catalina halted instantly, her eyes widened in shock. "What?"

"The King of France is considering making you his wife, Catalina. Does it not please you? I promised him I would speak on his behalf. Please, just think of it. I always told you I believe you were meant to be queen."

"But… no! I can't! I'm far too old to bear children for the King, what could he possibly want from me?" Catalina was visibly distressed.

"Dearest Catalina," Anne said, taking Catalina's hands into hers. "You are the daughter of kings and a true royal. Any king in Christendom would think himself blessed to have a wife like you. Francis already has children; he does not necessarily need more. What he needs is a gracious queen by his side and a loving mother for his children. You have always wanted children, have you not?"

Catalina nodded faintly.

"Perhaps this is the Lord's doing. Perhaps this is your chance to be a mother even if not from your own womb. Consider it. You would make a wonderful queen of France."

"I cannot believe any of this to be true," Catalina whispered.

The Queen smiled. "Take your time to consider the offer. I know that if you can find it in your heart to accept Francis, you will find in him an affectionate husband and a loving country in France. You will finally receive all that was denied to you for so long," she said. "But if you do not wish to, I will convey the news to Francis. I only wish for your happiness, as you are my truest friend on all this earth."

Wiping away a tear, the Dowager Princess nodded. "Thank you, Your Majesty. I will consider it."

* * *

1557. The years had come and passed filled with joys and sorrows alike. Queen Anne had climbed heights of happiness watching her five beautiful children grow up, but she had also plunged into hollows of sadness when her friends had left her one by one.

In 1533, her beloved sister Mary had died suddenly of consumption. Only a year later, Mary's young son had also died. Anne had been heart-broken, all the more because it pained her so to see Charles grieve for his wife. They might have had a shaky relationship during their marriage, but in her death they were fully reconciled. He later remarried to his seventeen-year-old ward; an act of panic, as Henry called it, but at least he found happiness again. He died in 1544, ripping a big wound into the King's heart.

Two years later, in 1546, they wore black again as they received the news of the death of the Queen of France. Catalina de Aragon, now known as Catherine Valois, had been most beloved by English and French people alike since her marriage to King Francis 20 years prior. She had been a most regal and graceful queen and a doting mother for all her step-children. She had even been granted a living child of her own, and even though this child had been but a girl, Catherine had adored her little Princess Anne all her life.

And now Anne was mourning again. After 34 years of marriage, her husband and King Consort Henry had taken seriously ill and met his maker. They had gone through many trials and tribulations together, fierce and passionate as they were, but in the end they had always stuck together. Even during their worst fights, there had always been something connecting them: Their children, their wonderful offspring, who were the future of England.

Anne couldn't be mad at Henry's death because she had a whole life to remember him by and five children, including Mary, Marquess of Pembroke, now happily married to a German Duke. She smiling thinking about Catherine, her eldest daughter, who had become the new queen of France after Francis's death along with her husband, Henri II. Another Queen Catherine for France. It seemed to be nothing but fate.

No, Anne couldn't be mad, for she had achieved greatness in her life: she had defended her father's legacy against all odds and become the first ruling queen of England. The Tudor line continued in her blood and would not cease to exist even after her death. A sincere and solemn smile graced Anne's lips as she thought of her deceased husband's son and namesake: Henry… yes, Henry, the spitting image of his handsome father except for his raven hair. He was a fine prince, already married with three children, and would surely make for a wonderful king someday.

_King Henry VIII… _Anne truly liked the sound of it.

* * *

**AN: So that's my take on what would have happened if we'd had a Queen Anne Tudor. Richard de la Pole is a real person, by the way, and he really died in 1525, but at the battle of Pavia. Idk whether he was as mean as my version of him or not, but he suited my purpose. If you want to elaborate on the idea, feel free to, but please ask or credit me! And please review. I haven't been writing for a while since I started a new job in August and barely find any free time. This I wrote on my way to/from work, but for my other stories I want to take a little more time. Perfectionism… Anyways, please review and hold out for updates! :)**

**Cheers, Rahja**

* * *

**Family Tree:**

_Henry VII (1457-1509) – Elizabeth of York (1466-1503)_

_- Arthur (1486-1502) – Catalina de Aragón (1485-1546) – Francis of France (1494-1547)_

___- _Margaret (1489-1541) – 1. James of Scotland (1473-1513), 2. Archibald Douglas (1489-1557)

___- _Elizabeth (1489-1514) – Richard de la Pole (1480-1525)

___- _Mary (1496-1533) – 1. Louis of France (1462-1515), 2. Charles Brandon (1484-1544)

___- _Edmund (1499-1500)

___- _Anne (1501-1560) – 1. Richard de la Pole (1480-1525), 2. Henry Boleyn (1497- 1557)

___- _Katherine (1503)

_Thomas Boleyn (1477-1539) – Elizabeth Howard (1480-1538)_

___- _Henry (1497- 1557) – 1. Margaret Butler (1499-1518), 2. Anne Tudor (1501-1560)

___- __- _Mary Boleyn (1516-1562) – Philip of Palatine-Neuburg (1503-1558)

___- __- _Catherine Tudor (1523-1568) – Henri of France (1519-1559)

___- __- _Henry Tudor (1526-1589) – Mary of Austria (1528-1603)

___- __- _Charles Tudor (1530-1561) – Jane Grey (1536-1578)

___- __- _Elizabeth Tudor (1533-1603) – Robert Dudley (1532-1588)

___- _Mary (1499-1543) – 1. William Carey (1500-1528), 2. William Stafford (1500-1556)

___- _Thomas (1500-1518)

___- _William (1502-1509)

___- _George (1504)


End file.
